IUC  SOUTH 

tMJLl. 

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HOLE 

^H^HIfi^l 

THE 
AAALL 


Arthur 
Morrison 


THE   HOLE   IN   THE   WALL 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE   AVALI 


AUTHOR  OF  TALES  OF   MEAN  STREETS, 
A  CHILD  OF  THE  JAGO,  ETC. 


ALDI 


McCLURE,   PHILLIPS  4-  CO. 

NEW  YORK 

MCMII 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
ARTHUR  MORRISON 


Published,  September,  1902  R 


TO 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Stephen's  Tale 1 

II.  In  Blue  Gate 21 

III.  Stephen's  Tale 35 

IV.  Stephen's  Tale 51 

V.  In  the  Highway 69 

VI.  Stephen's  Tale 79 

VII.  Stephen's  Tale 95 

III.  Stephen's  Tale 113 

IX.  Stephen's  Tale 123 

X.  Stephen's  Tale 133 

XI.  Stephen's  Tale 147 

XII.  In  the  Club-room 165 

XIII.  Stephen's  Tale 183 

XIV.  Stephen's  Tale 197 

XV.    Stephen's  Tale 209 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI.    Stephen's  Tale 221 

XVII.    In  Blue  Gate 237 

XVIII.    On  the  Cop 261 

XIX.    On  THE  Cop 271 

XX.    Stephen's  Tale 285 

XXI.    In  the  Bar-parlour 295 

XXII.    On  the  Cop .  307 

XXIII.  On  the  Cop 327 

XXIV.  On  THE  Cop 337 

XXV.    Stephen's  Tale 851 

XXVI.    Stephen's  Tale 365 

XXVII.    In  the  Bar-Parlour 377 

XXVIII.    Stephen's  Tale 389 

XXIX.    Stephen's  Tale 403 

XXX.    Stephen's  Tale 411 


[  viii  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cljapter  (^t 


STEPHEN'S    TALE 


ItXY  grandfather  was  a  publican — and  a  sinner, 
as  you  will  see.  His  public-house  was  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall,  on  the  river's  edge  at  Wapping;  and 
his  sins — all  of  them  that  I  know  of — are  recorded 
in  these  pages.  He  was  a  widower  of  some  small 
substance,  and  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  was  not  the 
sum  of  his  resources,  for  he  owned  a  little  wharf 
on  the  river  Lea.  I  called  him  Grandfather  Nat, 
not  to  distinguish  him  among  a  multitude  of 
grandfathers — for  indeed  I  never  knew  another  of 
my  own — but  because  of  affectionate  habit;  a 
habit  perhaps  born  of  the  fact  that  Nathaniel 
Kemp  was  also  my  father's  name.  My  own  is 
Stephen. 

To  remember  Grandfather  Nat  is  to  bethink  me 
of  pear-drops.  It  is  possible  that  that  particular 
sort  of  sweetstuff  is  now  obsolete,  and  I  cannot 
remember  how  many  years  have  passed  since  last 
I  smelt  it;  for  the  pear-drop  was  a  thing  that 
could  be  smelt  farther  than  seen,  and  oftener;  so 
that  its  smell — a  rather  fulsome,  vulgar  smell  I 
[3J 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
now  believe — Is  almost  as  distinct  to  my  Imagina- 
tion while  I  write  as  It  was  to  my  nose  thirty  years 
ago.  For  pear-drops  were  an  unfailing  part  of 
the  large  bagful  of  sticky  old-fashioned  lollipops 
that  my  grandfather  brought  on  his  visits,  stuffed 
Into  his  overcoat  pocket,  and  hard  to  get  out  with- 
out a  burst  and  a  spill.  His  custom  was  invari- 
able, so  that  I  think  I  must  have  come  to  regard 
the  sweets  as  some  natural  production  of  his  coat 
pocket;  insomuch  that  at  my  mother's  funeral 
my  muddled  brain  scarce  realised  the  full  desola- 
tion of  the  circumstances  till  I  discovered  that,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  experience,  my  grandfather's 
pocket  was  void  of  pear-drops.  But  with  this  new 
bereavement  the  world  seemed  empty  indeed,  and 
I  cried  afresh. 

Associated  in  my  memory  with  my  grandfather's 
bags  of  sweets,  almost  more  than  with  himself,  was 
the  gap  In  the  right  hand  where  the  middle  finger 
had  been ;  for  It  was  commonly  the  maimed  hand 
that  hauled  out  the  paper  bag,  and  the  gap  was 
plain  and  singular  against  the  white  paper.  He 
had  lost  the  finger  at  sea,  they  told  me;  and  as 
my  notion  of  losing  a  thing  was  derived  from  my 
[4] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
experience  in  mislaying  the  elephant  from  my 
Noah's  ark,  or  dropping  a  marble  through  a  grat- 
ing, I  was  long  puzzled  to  guess  how  anything 
like  that  could  have  happened  to  a  finger.  Withal 
the  circumstance  fascinated  me,  and  added  vastly 
to  the  importance  and  the  wonder  of  my  grand- 
father in  my  childish  eyes. 

He  was  perhaps  a  little  over  the  middle  height, 
but  so  broad  and  deep  of  chest  and,  especially,  so 
long  of  arm,  as  to  seem  squat.  He  had  some  grey 
hair,  but  it  was  all  below  the  line  of  his  hat-brim ; 
above  that  it  was  as  the  hair  of  a  young  man.  So 
that  I  was  led  to  reason  that  colour  must  be  washed 
out  of  hair  by  exposure  to  the  weather ;  as  perhaps 
in  his  case  it  was.  I  think  that  his  face  was  al- 
most handsome,  in  a  rough,  hard-bitten  way,  and 
he  was  as  hairy  a  man  as  I  ever  saw.  His  short 
beard  was  like  curled  wire ;  but  I  can  remember 
that  long  after  I  had  grown  to  resent  being  kissed 
by  women,  being  no  longer  a  baby,  I  gladly 
climbed  his  knee  to  kiss  my  grandfather,  though 
his  shaven  upper-lip  was  like  a  rasp. 

In  these  early  days  I  lived  with  my  mother  in 
a  little  house  of  a  short  row  that  stood  on  a  quay, 
[5] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
in  a  place  that  was  not  exactly  a  dock,  nor  a 
wharf,  nor  a  public  thoroughfare;  but  where  peo- 
ple from  the  dock  trying  to  find  a  wharf,  people 
from  a  wharf  looking  for  the  dock,  and  people 
from  the  public  thoroughfare  in  anxious  search 
of  dock  and  wharves,  used  to  meet  and  ask  each 
other  questions.  It  was  a  detached  piece  of  Black- 
wall  which  had  got  adrift  among  locks  and  jetties, 
and  was  liable  to  be  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  at  any  moment  by  the  arrival  of  a  sliip  and 
the  consequent  swinging  of  a  bridge,  worked  by 
two  men  at  a  winch.  So  that  it  was  a  common- 
place of  my  early  childhood  (though  the  sight 
never  lost  its  interest)  to  observe  from  a  window 
a  ship,  passing  as  it  were  up  the  street,  warped 
into  dock  by  the  capstan  on  the  quay.  And  the 
capstan-songs  of  the  dockmen — Shannadore,  Mex- 
ico is  covered  with  Snow,  Hurrah  for  the  Black 
Ball  Lvne  and  the  like — were  as  much  my  nursery 
rhymes  as  Little  Boy  Blue  and  Sing  a  Song  o'  Six- 
pence. These  things  are  done  differently  nowa- 
days; the  cottages  on  the  quay  are  gone,  and  the 
neighbourhood  is  a  smokier  place,  where  the  work 
is  done  by  engines,  with  no  songs. 
[61 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
My  father  was  so  much  at  sea  that  I  remember 
little  of  him  at  all.  He  was  a  ship's  officer,  and  at 
the  time  I  am  to  tell  of  he  was  mate  of  the  brig 
Juno,  owned  by  Viney  and  Marr,  one  of  the  small 
shipowning  firms  that  were  common  enough  thirty 
years  ago,  though  rarer  now ;  the  sort  of  firm  tha^ 
was  made  by  a  pushing  skipper  and  an  ambitious 
shipping  clerk,  beginning  with  a  cheap  vessel 
bought  with  money  raised  mainly  by  pawning  the 
ship.  Such  concerns  often  did  well,  and  some- 
times grew  into  great  lines ;  perhaps  most  of  them 
yielded  the  partners  no  more  than  a  comfortable 
subsistence ;  and  a  good  few  came  to  grief,  or  were 
kept  going  by  questionable  practices  which  have 
since  become  illegal — sometimes  in  truth  by  what 
the  law  called  crime,  even  then.  Viney  had  been  a 
ship's  officer — had  indeed  served  under  Grandfather 
Nat,  who  was  an  old  ^-^nper.  Marr  was  the  busi- 
ness man  who  had  been  a  clerk.  And  the  firm 
owned  two  brigs,  the  Juno  and  another;  though 
how  much  of  their  value  was  clear  property  and 
how  much  stood  for  borrowed  money  was  matter 
of  doubt  and  disagreement  In  the  conversation  of 
mates  and  skippers  along  Thames  shore.  What 
[7] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

nobody  disagreed  about,  however,  was  that  the 
business  was  run  on  skinflint  principles,  and  that 
the  vessels  were  so  badly  found,  so  ill-kept,  and  so 
grievously  under-manned,  that  the  firm  ought  to 
be  making  money.  These  things  by  the  way, 
though  they  are  important  to  remember.  As  I  was 
saying,  I  remember  little  of  my  father,  because  of 
his  long  voyages  and  short  spells  at  home.  But  my 
mother  is  so  clear  and  so  kind  in  my  recollection 
that  sometimes  I  dream  of  her  still,  though  she 
died  before  I  was  eight. 

It  was  while  my  father  was  on  a  long  voyage 
with  the  Juno  that  there  came  a  time  when  she  took 
me  often  upon  her  knee,  asking  if  I  should  like  a 
little  brother  or  sister  to  play  with;  a  thing  which 
I  demanded  to  have  brought,  instantly.  There  was 
a  fat  woman  called  Mrs.  Dann,  who  appeared  in  the 
household,  and  became  my  enemy.  She  slept  with 
my  mother,  and  my  cot  was  thrust  into  another 
room,  where  I  lay  at  night  and  brooded — some- 
times wept  with  jealousy  thus  to  be  supplanted; 
though  I  drew  what  consolation  I  might  from  the 
prospect  of  the  promised  playmate.  Then  I  could 
not  go  near  my  mother  at  all,  for  she  was  ill,  and 
[8] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
there  was  a  doctor.  And  then  ....  I  was 
told  that  mother  and  baby-brother  were  gone  to 
heaven  together;  a  thing  I  would  not  hear  of,  but 
fought  savagely  with  Mrs.  Dann  on  the  landing, 
shouting  to  my  mother  that  she  was  not  to  die,  for 
I  was  coming.  And  when,  wearied  with  kicking 
and  screaming — for  I  fought  with  neighbours  as 
well  as  with  the  nurse  and  the  undertaker,  con- 
ceiving them  to  be  all  in  league  to  deprive  me  of 
my  mother — when  at  last  the  woman  from  next 
door  took  me  into  the  bedroom,  and  I  saw  the  drawn 
face  that  could  not  smile,  and  my  tiny  brother  that 
could  not  play,  lying  across  the  dead  breast,  I  so 
behaved  that  the  good  soul  with  me  blubbered 
aloud;  and  I  had  an  added  grief  in  the  reflection 
that  I  had  kicked  her  shins  not  half  an  hour  be- 
fore. I  have  never  seen  that  good  woman  since; 
and  I  am  ashamed  to  write  that  I  cannot  even  re- 
member her  name. 

I  have  no  more  to  say  of  my  mother  and  of  her 
funeral  only  so  much  as  records  the  least  part  of 
my  grief.  Some  of  her  relations  came,  whom  I  can- 
not distinctly  remember  seeing  at  any  other  time: 
a  group  of  elderly  and  hard-featured  women,  who 
[91 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

talked  of  me  as  "  the  child,"  very  much  as  they 
might  have  talked  of  some  troublesome  article  of 
baggage ;  and  who  turned  up  their  noses  at  my 
grandfather:  who,  for  his  part,  was  uneasily  re- 
spectful, calling  each  of  them  "  mum  "  very  often. 
I  was  not  attracted  by  my  mother's  relations,  and 
I  kept  as  near  my  grandfather  as  possible,  feel- 
ing a  vague  fear  that  some  of  them  might  have 
a  design  of  taking  me  away.  Though  indeed 
none  was  in  the  least  ambitious  of  that  responsi- 
bility. 

They  were  not  all  women,  for  there  was  one  quiet 
little  man  in  their  midst,  who,  when  not  eating  cake 
or  drinking  wine,  was  sucking  the  bone  handle  of  a 
woman's  umbrella,  which  he  carried  with  him  every- 
where, indoors  and  out.  He  was  in  the  custody  of 
the  largest  and  grimmest  of  the  ladies,  whom  the 
others  called  Aunt  Martha.  He  was  so  completely 
in  her  custody  that  after  some  consideration  I 
judged  he  must  be  her  son;  though  indeed  he 
seemed  very  old  for  that.  I  now  believe  him  to 
have  been  her  husband ;  but  I  cannot  remember  to 
have  heard  his  name,  and  I  cannot  invent  him  a 
better  one  than  Uncle  Martha. 
[10] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
Uncle  Martha  would  have  behaved  quite  well,  I 
am  convinced,  if  he  had  been  left  alone,  and  would 
have  acquitted  himself  with  perfect  propriety  in 
all  the  transactions  of  the  day ;  but  it  seemed  to  be 
Aunt  Martha's  immovable  belief  that  he  was  wholly 
incapable  of  any  action,  even  the  simplest  and  most 
obvious,  unless  impelled  by  shoves  and  jerks.  Con- 
sequently he  was  shoved  into  the  mourning  carriage 
— we  had  two- — and  jerked  into  the  corner  opposite 
to  the  one  he  selected;  shoved  out — almost  on  all 
fours — at  the  cemetery ;  and,  perceiving  him  enter- 
ing the  little  chapel  of  his  own  motion.  Aunt  Mar- 
tha overtook  him  and  jerked  him  in  there.  This 
example  presently  impressed  the  other  ladies  with 
the  expediency  of  shoving  Uncle  Martha  at  any 
convenient  opportunity ;  so  that  he  arrived  home 
with  us  at  last  in  a  severely  jostled  condition,  faith- 
ful to  the  bone-handled  umbrella  through  every- 
thing. 

Grandfather  Nat  had  been  liberal  in  provision 
for  the  funeral  party,  and  the  cake  and  port  wine, 
the  gin  and  water,  the  tea  and  the  watercress,  oc- 
cupied the  visitors  for  some  time;  a  period  illumi- 
nated by  many  moral  reflections  from  a  rather  fat 
[11] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
relation,  who  was  no  doubt,  like  most  of  the  others, 
an  aunt. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  Fat  Aunt,  shaking  her 
head,  with  a  deep  sigh  that  suggested  repletion; 
"  ah,  well ;  it's  what  we  must  all  come  to !  " 

There  had  been  a  deal  of  other  conversation, 
but  I  remember  this  remark  because  the  Fat  Aunt 
had  already  made  it  twice. 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  assented  another  aunt,  a  thin  one ; 
"  so  we  must,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  as  I  often  say,  we're  all  mortal." 

"  Yes,  indeed !  " 

"  We've  all  got  to  be  born,  an'  we've  all  got  to 
die." 

"  That's  ti-ue !  " 

"  Rich  an'  poor — just  the  same." 

"  Ah !  " 

"  In  the  midst  of  life  we're  in  the  middle  of 
it." 

"  Ah,  yes !  " 

Grandfather  Nat,  deeply  impressed,  made  haste 
to  refill  the  Fat  Aunt's  glass,  and  to  push  the  cake- 
dish  nearer.     Aunt  Martha  jerked  Uncle  Martha's 
elbow  toward  his  glass,  which  he  was  neglecting, 
[12] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
with  a  sudden  nod  and  a  frown  of  pointed  signifi- 
cance— even  command. 

"  It's  a  great  trial  for  all  of  the  family,  I'm 
sure,"  pursued  the  Fat  Aunt,  after  applications  to 
glass  and  cake-dish ;  "  but  we  must  bear  up.  Not 
that  we  ain't  had  trials  enough,  neither." 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Aunt  Martha  with  a  snap 
at  my  grandfather,  as  though  he  were  the  trial 
chiefly  on  her  mind;  which  Grandfather  Nat  took 
very  humbly,  and  tried  her  with  watercress. 

"  Well,  she's  better  off,  poor  thing,"  the  Fat 
Aunt  went  on. 

Some  began  to  say  "  Ah ! "  again,  but  Aunt 
Martha  snapped  it  into  "  Well  let's  hope  so !  " — in 
the  tone  of  one  convinced  that  my  mother  couldn't 
be  much  worse  off  than  she  had  been.  From 
which,  and  from  sundry  other  remarks  among  the 
aunts,  I  gathered  that  my  mother  was  held  to  have 
hurt  the  dignity  of  her  family  by  alliance  with 
Grandfather  Nat's.  I  have  never  wholly  under- 
stood why ;  but  I  put  the  family  pride  down  to  the 
traditional  wedding  of  an  undoubted  auctioneer 
with  Aunt  Martha's  cousin.  So  Aunt  Martha 
said  "  Let's  hope  so !  "  and,  with  another  sudden 
[  13  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
frown  and  nod,  shoved  Uncle  Martha  toward  the 
cake. 

"  What  a  blessing  the  child  was  took  too !  "  was 
the  Fat  Aunt's  next  observation. 

"  Ah,  that  it  is !  "  murmured  the  chorus.  But 
I  was  puzzled  and  shocked  to  hear  such  a  thing 
said  of  my  little  brother. 

"  And  it's  a  good  job  there's  only  one  left." 

The  chorus  agreed  again.  I  began  to  feel  that 
I  had  seriously  disobliged  my  mother's  relations  by 
not  dying  too. 

"  And  him  a  boy ;  boys  can  look  after  them- 
selves."    This  was  a  thin  aunt's  opinion. 

"  Ah,  and  that's  a  blessing,"  sighed  the  Fat 
Aunt ;  "  a  great  blessing." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Aunt  Martha.  "  And  it's  not 
to  be  expected  that  his  mother's  relations  can  be 
burdened  with  him." 

"  Why,  no  indeed !  "  said  the  Fat  Aunt,  very  de- 
cisively. 

"  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  be  poor  Ellen's  wish  to 

cause  more  trouble  to  her  family  than  she  has !  " 

And  Aunt  Martha,  with  a  frown  at  the  watercress, 

gave  Uncle  Martha  another  jolt.     It  seemed  to  me 

[  14  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
that  he  had  really  eaten  all  he  wanted,  and  would 
rather  leave  off ;  and  I  wondered  if  she  always  fed 
him  like  that,  or  if  it  were  only  when  they  were 
visiting. 

"  And  besides,  it  'ud  be  standing  in  the  child's 
way,"  Aunt  Martha  resumed,  "  with  so  many  open- 
ings as  there  is  in  the  docks  here,  quite  handy." 

Perhaps  it  was  because  I  was  rather  dull  in  the 
head  that  day,  from  one  cause  and  another ;  at  any 
rate  I  could  think  of  no  other  openings  in  the  docks 
but  those  between  the  ships  and  the  jetties,  and  at 
the  lock-sides,  which  people  sometimes  fell  into,  in 
the  dark ;  and  I  gathered  a  hazy  notion  that  I  was 
expected  to  make  things  comfortable  by  going  out 
and  drowning  myself. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  would,"  said  the  Fat  Aunt. 

"  It  stands  to  reason,"  said  a  thin  one. 

"Anybody  can  see  that,"  said  the  others. 

"  And  many  a  boy's  gone  out  to  work  no  older." 

"  Ah,  and  been  members  o'  Parliament  after- 
ward, too." 

The  prospects  of  an  entry  into  Parliament  pre- 
sented so  stupefying  a  contrast  with  that  of  an 
immersion  in  the  dock  that  for  some  time  the  en- 
[15] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
suing  conversation  made  little  impression  on  me. 
On  the  part  of  my  mother's  relations  it  was  mainly 
a  repetition  of  what  had  gone  before,  very  much 
in  the  same  words ;  and  as  to  my  grandfather,  he 
had  little  to  say  at  all,  but  expressed  himself,  so 
far  as  he  might,  by  furtive  pats  on  my  back ;  pats 
increasing  in  intensity  as  the  talk  of  the  ladies 
pointed  especially  and  unpleasingly  to  myself.  Till 
at  last  the  food  and  drink  were  all  gone.  Where- 
upon the  Fat  Aunt  sighed  her  last  moral  sentiment, 
Uncle  Martha  was  duly  shoved  out  on  the  quay, 
and  I  was  left  alone  with  Grandfather  Nat. 

"  Well  Stevy,  oP  mate,"  said  my  grandfather, 
drawing  me  on  his  knee ;  "  us  two's  left  alone ;  left 
alone,  ol'  mate." 

I  had  not  cried  much  that  day — scarce  at  all  in 
fact,  since  first  meeting  my  grandfather  in  the 
passage  and  discovering  his  empty  pocket — for,  as 
I  have  said,  I  was  a  little  dull  in  the  head,  and  try- 
ing hard  to  think  of  many  things.  But  now  I 
cried  indeed,  with  my  face  against  my  grandfath- 
er's shoulder,  and  there  was  something  of  solace 
in  the  outburst ;  and  when  at  last  I  looked  up  I  saw 
two  bright  drops  hanging  in  the  wiry  tangle  of  my 
[16] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

grandfather's  beard,  and  another  lodged  in  the  fur- 
row under  one  eye. 

"  'Nough  done,  Stevy,"  said  my  grandfather ; 
"  don't  cry  no  more.  You'll  come  home  along  o' 
me  now,  won't  ye?  An'  to-morrow  we'll  go  in  the 
London  Dock,  where  the  sugar  is." 

I  looked  round  the  room  and  considered,  as  well 
as  my  sodden  little  head  would  permit.  I  had  never 
been  in  the  London  Dock,  which  was  a  wonderful 
place,  as  I  had  gathered  from  my  grandfather's  de- 
scriptions: a  paradise  where  sugar  lay  about  the 
very  ground  in  lumps,  and  where  you  might  eat 
it  if  you  would,  so  long  as  you  brought  none  away. 
But  here  was  my  home,  with  nobody  else  to  take 
care  of  it,  and  I  felt  some  muddled  sense  of  a  new 
responsibility.  "  I'm  'fraid  I  can't  leave  the  place, 
Gran''fa'  Nat,"  I  said,  with  a  dismal  shake  of  the 
head.  "  Father  might  come  home,  an'  he  wouldn't 
know,  an' " 

"  An'  so — an'  so  you  think  you've  got  to  stop 
an'  keep  house  ?  "  my  grandfather  asked,  bending 
his  face  down  to  mine. 

The  prospect  had  been  oppressing  my  muzzy 
faculties  all  day-  If  I  escaped  being  taken  away, 
[17] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
plainly  I  must  keep  house,  and  cook,  and  buy 
things  and  scrub  floors,  at  any  rate  till  my  father 
came  home;  though  it  seemed  a  great  deal  to  un- 
dertake alone.  So  I  answered  with  a  nod  and  a 
forlorn  sniff. 

"  Good  pluck !  good  pluck ! "  exclaimed  my 
grandfather,  exultantly,  clapping  his  hand  twice 
on  my  head  and  rubbing  it  vigorously.  "  Stevy, 
ol'  mate,  me  an'  you'll  get  on  capital.  I  knowed 
you'd  make  a  plucked  'un.  But  you  won't  have 
to  keep  house  alone  jest  yet.  No.  You  an'  me'll 
keep  house  together,  Stevy,  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall. 
Your  father  won't  be  home  a  while  yet;  an'  I'll 
settle  all  about  this  here  place.  But  Lord !  what 
a  pluck  for  a  shaver !  "  And  he  brightened  won- 
derfully. 

In  truth  there  had  been  little  enough  of  courage 
in  my  poor  little  body,  and  Grandfather  Nat's 
words  brought  me  a  deal  of  relief.  Beyond  the 
vague  terrors  of  loneliness  and  responsibility,  I  had 
been  troubled  by  the  reflection  that  housekeeping 
cost  money,  and  I  had  none.  For  though  my  moth- 
er's half-pay  note  had  been  sent  in  the  regular  way 
to  Viney  and  Marr  a  week  before,  there  had  been 
[18] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
neither  reply  nor  return  of  the  paper.     The  cir- 
cumstance was  unprecedented  and  unaccountable, 
though  the  explanation  came  before  very  long. 

For  the  present,  however,  the  difficulty  was  put 
aside.  I  put  my  hand  in  my  grandfather's,  and, 
the  door  being  locked  behind  us  and  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  we  went  out  together,  on  the  quay,  over  the 
bridge  and  into  the  life  that  was  to  be  new  for  us 
both. 


19] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 


IN   BLUE    GATE 


W  HILE  his  mother's  relations  walked  out  of 
Stephen's  tale,  and  left  his  grandfather  in  it,  the 
tales  of  all  the  world  went  on,  each  man  hero  in 
his  own. 

Viney  and  Marr  were  owners  of  the  brig  Juno, 
away  in  tropic  seas,  with  Stephen's  father  chief 
mate ;  and  at  this  time  the  tale  of  Viney  and  Marr 
had  just  divided  into  two,  inasmuch  as  the  partners 
were  separated  and  the  firm  was  at  a  crisis — ^the 
crisis  responsible  for  the  withholding  of  Mrs. 
Kemp's  half-pay.  No  legal  form  had  dissolved 
the  firm,  indeed,  and  scarce  half  a  mile  of  streets  lay 
between  the  two  men;  but  in  truth  Marr  had  left 
his  partner  with  uncommon  secrecy  and  expedition, 
carrying  with  him  all  the  loose  cash  he  could  get 
together;  and  a  man  need  travel  a  very  little  way 
to  hide  in  London.  So  it  was  that  Mr.  Viney,  left 
alone  to  bear  the  firm's  burdens,  was  loafing,  some- 
times about  his  house  in  Commercial  Road,  Step- 
ney, sometimes  in  the  back  streets  and  small  public 
houses  hard  by ;  pondering,  no  doubt,  the  matter 
[  23  j 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
contained  in  a  paper  that  had  that  afternoon 
stricken  the  colour  from  the  face  of  one  Crooks, 
ship-chandler,  of  Shadwell,  and  had  hardly  less  dis- 
quieted others  in  related  trades.  While  Marr,  for 
the  few  days  since  his  flight  no  more  dressed  like 
the  business  partner  in  a  shipowning  concern,  nor 
even  like  a  clerk,  but  in  serge  and  anklejacks,  like 
a  foremast  hand,  was  playing  up  to  his  borrowed 
character  by  being  drunk  in  Blue  Gate. 

The  Blue  Gate  is  gone  now — it  went  with  many 
places  of  a  history  only  less  black  when  RatclifF 
Highway  was  put  to  rout.  As  you  left  High 
Street,  Shadwell,  for  the  Highway — they  made  one 
thoroughfare — the  Blue  Gate  was  on  your  right, 
almost  opposite  an  evil  lane  that  led  downhill  to  the 
New  Dock.  Blue  Gate  Fields,  it  was  more  fully 
called,  though  there  was  as  little  of  a  field  as  of  a 
gate,  blue  or  other,  about  the  place,  which  was  a 
street,  narrow,  foul  and  forbidding,  leading  up 
to  Back  Lane.  It  was  a  bad  and  a  dangerous 
place,  the  worst  in  all  that  neighbourhood :  worse 
than  Frederick  Street — worse  than  Tiger  Bay. 
The  sailor  once  brought  to  anchor  in  Blue  Gate 
was  lucky  to  get  out  with  clothes  to  cover  him — 
[  24  j 


IN  BLUE  GATE 
lucky  if  he  saved  no  more  than  his  Uf  e.  Yet  sailors 
were  there  in  plenty,  hilarious,  shouting,  drunk 
and  drugged.  Horrible  draggled  women  pawed 
them  over  for  whatever  their  pockets  might  yield, 
and  murderous  ruffians  were  ready  at  hand  when- 
ever a  knock  on  the  head  could  solve  a  difficulty. 

Front  doors  stood  ever  open  in  the  Blue  Gate, 
and  some  houses  had  no  front  doors  at  all.  At  the 
top  of  one  of  the  grimy  flights  of  stairs  thus  made 
accessible  from  the  street,  was  a  noisy  and  ill-smell- 
ing room ;  noisy  because  of  the  company  it  held ; 
ill-smelling  partly  because  of  their  tobacco,  but 
chiefly  because  of  the  tobacco  and  the  liquor  of 
many  that  had  been  there  before,  and  because  of 
the  aged  foulness  of  the  whole  building.  There 
were  five  in  the  room,  four  men  and  a  woman.  One 
of  the  men  was  Marr,  though  for  the  present  he 
was  not  using  that  name.  He  was  noticeable  amid 
the  group,  being  cleaner  than  the  rest,  fair-haired, 
and  dressed  like  a  sailor  ashore,  though  he  lacked 
the  sunburn  that  was  proper  to  the  character.  But 
sailor  or  none,  there  he  sat  where  many  had  sat 
before  him,  a  piece  of  the  familiar  prey  of  Blue 
Gate,  babbling  drunk  and  reasonless.  The  others 
[25] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

were  watchfully  sober  enough,  albeit  with  a  great 
pretence  of  jollity;  they  had  drunk  level  with  the 
babbler,  but  had  been  careful  to  water  his  drink 
with  gin.  As  for  him,  he  swayed  and  lolled,  some- 
times on  the  table  before  him,  sometimes  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  woman  at  his  side.  She  was  no 
beauty,  with  her  coarse  features,  dull  eyes  and 
tousled  hair,  her  thick  voice  and  her  rusty  finery; 
but  indeed  she  was  the  least  repulsive  of  that  foul 
company. 

On  the  victim's  opposite  side  sat  a  large  framed 
bony  fellow,  with  a  thin,  unhealthy  face  that  seemed 
to  belong  to  some  other  body,  and  dress  that  pro- 
claimed him  'longshore  ruffian.  The  woman  called 
him  Dan,  and  nods  and  winks  passed  between  the 
two,  over  the  drooping  head  between  them.  Next 
Dan  was  an  ugly  rascal  with  a  broken  nose ;  singu- 
lar in  that  place,  as  bearing  in  his  dress  none  of  the 
marks  of  waterside  habits,  crimper}^  and  the  High- 
way, but  seeming  rather  the  commonplace  town  rat 
of  Shoreditch  or  Whitechapel.  And,  last,  a  blind 
fiddler  sat  in  a  corner,  fiddling  a  flourish  from  time 
to  time,  roaring  with  foul  jest,  and  rolling  his  sin- 
gle white  eye  upward. 

[26] 


IN     BLUE     GATE 

"  No,  I  wo'nav  another,"  the  fair-haired  man 
said,  staring  about  him  witli  uncertain  eyes.  "  Got 
bishness  'tend  to.  I  say,  wha'  pubsh  this  ?  'Tain' 
Brown  Bear,  ish't.''     Ish't  Brown  Bear.?  " 

"  No,  you  silly,"  the  woman  answered  playfully. 
"  'Taint  the  Brown  Bear ;  you've  come  'ome  along 
of  us." 

"  O !  Come  home,  come  home.  ...  I  shay 
— this  won'  do!  Mus'n'  go  'ome  yet — get  col- 
lared y'  know !  "  This  with  an  owlish  wink  at  the 
bottle  before  him. 

Dan  and  the  woman  exchanged  a  quick  look; 
plainly  something  had  gone  before  that  gave  the 
words  significance.  "  No,"  Marr  went  on,  "  mus'n' 
go  'ome.  I'm  sailor-man  jus'  'shore  from  brig 
Juno  in  from  Barbadoes.  .  .  .  No,  not  Juno, 
course  not.  Dunno  Juno.  'Tain'  Juno.  D'3'ear.'* 
'Tain'  Juno,  ye  know,  my  ship.  Never  heard  o' 
Juno.  Mine's  'nother  ship.  ...  I  say,  Avha'sh 
name  my  ship?  " 

"  You're  a  rum  sailor-man,"  said  Dan,  "  not  to 
know  the  name  of  your  own  ship  ten  minutes  to- 
gether. Why  you've  told  us  about  four  different 
names  a'ready." 

[27] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

The  sham  seaman  chuckled  feebly. 

"  Why,  I  don't  believe  you're  a  sailor  at  all, 
mate,"  the  woman  remarked,  still  playfully. 
"  You've  just  bin  a-kiddin'  of  us  fine !  " 

The  chuckle  persisted,  and  turned  to  a  stupid 
grin.  "Ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha!  Have  it  y'r  own  way." 
This  with  a  clumsily  stealthy  grope  at  the  breast 
pocket — a  movement  that  the  others  had  seen  be- 
fore, and  remembered.  "  Have  it  y'r  own  way. 
But  I  say ;  I  say,  y'  know  " — suddenly  serious — 
"  you're  all  right,  ain't  you.''  Eh.''  All  right, 
you  know,  eh.''  I  s — say — I  hope  you're — or- 
right?" 

"  Awright,  mate.''  Course  we  are!"  And  Dan 
clapped  him  cordially  on  the  shoulder. 

"Awright,  mate?"  shouted  the  blind  man,  his 
white  eye  rolling  and  blinking  horribly  at  the  ceil- 
ing. "  Right  as  ninepence !  An'  a  'a'penny  over, 
damme !  " 

"  We^re  awright,"  growled  the  broken-nosed 
man,  thickly. 

"  We  don't  tell  no  secrets,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Thash  all  very  well,  but  I  was  talkin'  about  the 
Juno,  y'  know.  Wasn't  I  talkin'  about  Juno?  "  A 
[28] 


IN     BLUE     GATE 
look  of  sleepy  alarm  was  on  the  fair  man's  face  as 
he  turned  his  eyes  from  one  to  another. 

"  Ay,  that's  so,"  answered  the  fellow  at  his  side. 
"  Brig  Juno  in  from  Barbadoes." 

"Ah!  Thash  where  you're  wrong;  she  ainH  in 
— see?  "  Marr  wagged  his  head,  and  leered  the 
profoundest  sagacity.  "  She  aiTi't  in.  What's 
more,  'ow  d'you  know  she  ever  will  come  in,  eh? 
'Ow  d'ye  know  that  ?  Thash  one  for  ye,  ole  f 'ler ! 
Whar'll  ye  bet  me  she  ever  gets  as  far  as — but  I 
say,  I  say;  I  say,  y'  know,  you're  all  right,  ain't 
you  ?     Qui'  sure  you're  orrigh'  ?  " 

There  was  a  new  and  a  longer  chorus  of  reas- 
surance, which  Dan  at  last  ended  with :  "  Go  on ; 
the  Juno  ain't  ever  to  come  back ;  is  that  it?  " 

Marr  turned  and  stared  fishily  at  him  for  some 
seconds.  "  Whar'r  you  mean?"  he  demanded  at 
length,  with  a  drivelling  assumption  of  dignity. 
"  Whar'r  you  mean  ?  N-never  come  back  ?  Nishe 
remark  make  'spectable  shipowner !  Whassor'  firm 
you  take  us  for,  eh?  " 

The  blind  fiddler  stopped  midway  in  a  flourish 
and  pursed  his  lips  silently.     Dan  looked  quickly 
at  the  fiddler,  and  as  quickly  back  at  the  drunken 
[29] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
man.       Marr's  attitude  and  the  turn  of  his  head 
being  favourable,  the  woman  quietly  detached  his 
watch. 

"  Whassor'  firm  jou  take  us  for.?  "  he  repeated. 
"  D'ye  think  'cause  we're — 'cause  I  come  here — 
'cause  I  come  'ere  an' — "  he  stopped  foolishly,  and 
tailed  off  into  nothing,  smiling  uneasily  at  one  and 
another. 

The  woman  held  up  the  watch  behind  him — a 
silver  hunter,  engraved  with  Marr's  chief  initial — 
a  noticeably  large  letter  M.  Dan  saw  it,  shook  his 
head  and  frowned,  pointed  and  tapped  his  own 
breast  pocket,  all  in  a  moment.  And  presently 
the  woman  slipped  the  watch  back  into  the  pocket 
it  came  from. 

"  'Ere,  'ave  another  drink,"  said  Dan  hospita- 
bly. "  'Ave  another  all  round  for  the  last,  'fore 
the  fiddler  goes.     'Ere,  y'  are,  George,  reach  out." 

"  Eh?  "  ejaculated  the  fiddler.  "  Eh.?  I  ain't 
goin' !  Didn't  the  genelman  ask  me  to  come  along? 
Come,  I'll  give  y'  a  toon.  I'll  give  y'  a  chant  as'U 
make  yer  'air  curl !  " 

"  Take  your  drink,  George,"  Dan  insisted,  "  we 
don't  want  our  'air  curled." 
[30] 


IN     BLUE     GATE 

The  fiddler  groped  for  and  took  the  drink,  swal- 
lowed it,  and  twangled  the  fiddle-strings.  "  Will 
j'  ave  Black  Jack?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  Dan  answered  with  a  rising  voice.  "  We 
won't  'ave  Black  Jack,  an'  what's  more  we  won't 
'ave  Blind  George,  see.-^  You  cut  your  lucky,  soon 
as  ye  like !  " 

"  Awright,  awright,  cap'en,"  the  fiddler  remon- 
strated, rising  reluctantly.  "  You're  'ard  on  a 
pore  blind  bloke,  damme.  Ain't  I  to  get  nothin' 
out  o'  this  'ere.'*  I  ask  ye  fair,  didn't  the  genelman 
tell  me  to  come  along  .f*  " 

Marr,  ducking  and  lolling  over  the  table,  here 
looked  up  and  said:  "  Wassup.''  Fiddler  won'  go.f* 
Gi'm  twopence  an'  kick'm  downstairs.  'Ere  y' 
are !  "  and  he  pulled  out  some  small  change  be- 
tween his  fingers,  and  spilt  it  on  the  table. 

Dan  and  the  broken-nosed  man  gathered  it  up 
and  thrust  it  into  the  blind  man's  hand.  "  This 
ain't  the  straight  game,"  he  protested,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  as  they  pushed  him  through  the  door- 
way. "  I  want  my  reg'lars  out  o'  that  lot.  D'ye 
'ear  ?    I  want  my  reg'lars !  " 

But  they  shut  the  door  on  him,  whereupon  he 
[31] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
broke  into  a  torrent  of  curses  on  the  landing ;  and 
presently,  having  descended  several  of  the  stairs, 
reached  back  to  let  drive  a  thump  at  the  door 
with  his  stick;  and  so  went  off  swearing  into  the 
street. 

Marr  sniggered  feebly.  "  Chucked  out  fiddler," 
he  said.  "  Whash  we  do  now.''  I  won'  'ave  any 
more  drink.  I  'ad  'nough.  .  .  .  Think  I'll 
be  gett'n'  along.  .  .  .  Here,  what  you  after, 
eh.?" 

He  clapped  his  hand  again  to  his  breast  pocket, 
and  turned  suspiciously  on  the  woman.  "  You 
keep  y'r  hands  off,"  he  said.  "  Wha'  wan'  my 
pocket.''  " 

"  Awright,  mate,"  the  woman  answered  placidly. 
"  I  ain't  a  touchin'  yer  pockets.  Why  look  there 
— yer  watchguard's  'angin' ;  you'll  drop  that  pres- 
ently an'  say  it's  me,  I  s'pose !  " 

"  You'd  better  get  away  from  the  genelman  if 
you  can't  behave  yourself  civil,"  interposed  Dan, 
pushing  the  woman  aside  and  getting  between 
them.  "  'Ere,  mate,  you  got  to  'ave  another  drink 
along  o'  me.  I'll  turn  her  out  arter  the  fiddler, 
if  she  ain't  civil." 

[32] 


IN     BLUE     GATE 

"  I  won'  'ave  another  drink,"  said  Marr,  thick- 
ly, strugghng  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  drop- 
ping back  instantly  to  his  chair.  "  I  won'  'ave 
another." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  replied  Dan.  "  'Ere, 
you  get  out,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  woman 
as  he  hauled  her  up  by  the  shoulders.  "  You  get 
out;  we're  goin'  to  be  comf 'table  together,  us  two 
an'  'im.     Out  ye  go !  " 

He  thrust  her  toward  the  door  and  opened  it. 
"  I'm  sick  o'  foolin'  about,"  he  added  in  an  angry 
undertone :  "  quick's  the  word." 

"  O  no,  Dan — don't,"  the  woman  pleaded,  whis- 
pering on  the  landing.  "  Not  that  way !  Not 
again !  I'll  get  it  from  him  easy  in  a  minute ! 
Don't  do  it,  Dan !  " 

"  Shut  yer  mouth !  I  ain't  askin'  you .  You 
shove  off  a  bit." 

"  Don't,  Dan !  " 

But  the  door  was  shut. 

"  I  tell  ye  I  won'  'ave  another !  "  came  Marr's 
voice  from  within. 

The  woman  went  down  the  stairs,  her  gross  face 
drawn  as  though  she  wept,  though  her  eyes  were 
[33] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
dry.     At  the  door  she  looked  back  with  something 
hke  a  shudder;  and  then  turned  her  steps  down  the 
street. 

The  two  partners  in  Viney  and  Marr  were  sep- 
arated indeed;  but  now  it  was  by  something  more 
than  half  a  mile  of  streets. 


[34] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjaptq:  C|)ree 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


J  HAD  never  been  home  with  Grandfather  Nat 
before.  I  fancy  that  some  scruples  of  my  moth- 
er's, in  the  matter  of  the  neighbourhood  and  the 
character  of  the  company  to  be  seen  and  heard  at 
the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  had  hitherto  kept  me  from 
the  house,  and  even  from  the  sugary  elysium  of  the 
London  Dock.  Now  I  was  going  there  at  last, 
and  something  of  eager  anticipation  overcame  the 
sorrow  of  the  day. 

We  went  in  an  omnibus,  which  we  left  in  Com- 
mercial Road.  Here  my  grandfather  took  order 
to  repair  my  disappointment  in  the  matter  of 
pear-drops ;  and  we  left  the  shop  with  such  a  bag- 
ful that  it  would  not  go  into  the  accustomed 
pocket  at  all.  A  little  way  from  this  shop,  and  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  stood  a  house  which 
my  mother  had  more  than  once  pointed  out  to  me 
already ;  and  as  we  came  abreast  of  it  now.  Grand- 
father Nat  pointed  it  out  also.  "  Know  who  lives 
there,  Stevy .''  "  he  asked. 

[37  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  Mr.  Viney,  that  father's  ship 
belongs  to." 

There  was  a  man  sitting  on  the  stone  baluster 
by  the  landing  of  the  front  steps,  having  appar- 
ently just  desisted  from  knocking  at  the  door. 
He  was  pale  and  agitated,  and  he  slapped  his  leg 
distractedly  with  a  folded  paper. 

"  Why,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  that's  Crooks, 
the  ship-chandler.     He  looks  bad;  wonder  what's 


up 


?  » 


With  that  the  door  opened,  and  a  servant- girl, 
in  bonnet  and  shawl,  emerged  with  her  box,  lifting 
and  dragging  it  as  best  she  might.  The  man  rose 
and  spoke  to  her,  and  I  supposed  that  he  was  about 
to  help.  But  at  her  answer  he  sank  back  on  the 
balustrade,  and  she  hauled  the  box  to  the  pavement 
by  herself.  The  man  looked  worse  than  ever,  now, 
and  he  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side ;  so  that  it 
struck  me  that  it  might  be  that  his  mother  also  was 
dead ;  perhaps  to-day ;  and  at  the  thought  all  the 
flavour  went  from  the  pear-drop  in  my  mouth. 

We  turned  up  a  narrow  street  which  led  us  to  a 
part  where  the  river  plainly  was  nearer  at  every 
step;  for  well  I  knew  the  curious  smell  that  grew 
[38] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
as  we  went,  and  that  had  in  it  something  of  tar, 
something  of  rope  and  junk,  something  of  ship's 
stores,  and  much  of  a  blend  of  unknown  outlandish 
merchandise.  We  met  sailors,  some  with  parrots 
and  accordions,  and  many  with  undecided  legs ; 
and  we  saw  more  of  the  hang-dog  fellows  who  were 
not  sailors,  though  they  dressed  in  the  same  way, 
and  got  an  inactive  living  out  of  sailors,  somehow. 
They  leaned  on  posts,  they  lurked  in  foul  entries, 
they  sat  on  sills,  smoking;  and  often  one  would 
accost  and  hang  to  a  passing  sailor,  with  a  grin- 
ning, trumped-up  cordiality  that  offended  and  re- 
pelled me,  child  as  I  was.  And  there  were  big, 
coarse  women,  with  flaring  clothes,  and  hair  that 
shone  with  grease;  though  for  them  I  had  but  a 
certain  wonder ;  as  for  why  they  all  seemed  to  live 
near  the  docks ;  why  they  all  grew  so  stout ;  and 
why  they  never  wore  bonnets. 

As  we  went  where  the  street  grew  fouler  and 
more  crooked,  and  where  dark  entries  and  many 
turnings  gave  evidence  of  the  complication  of 
courts  and  alleys  about  us,  we  heard  a  hoarse  voice 
crooning  a  stave  of  a  sea-song,  with  the  low  scrape 
of  a  fiddle  striking  in  here  and  there,  as  it  were  at 
[39] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
random.  And  presently  there  turned  a  corner 
ahead  and  faced  toward  us  a  bhnd  man,  with  his 
fiddle  held  low  against  his  chest,  and  his  face  lifted 
upward,  a  little  aside.  He  checked  at  the  corner 
to  hit  the  wall  a  couple  of  taps  with  the  stick  that 
hung  from  his  wrist,  and  called  aloud,  with  fouler 
words  than  I  can  remember  or  could  print :  "  Now 
then,  damn  ye!  Ain't  there  ne'er  a  Christian 
sailor-man  as  wants  a  toon  o'  George  .f^  Who'll 
'ave  a  toon  o'  George.?  Ain't  ye  got  no  money, 
damn  ye.''  Not  a  brown  for  pore  blind  George? 
What  a  dirty  mean  lot  it  is!  Who'll  'ave  a  'om- 
pipe.^*  Who'll  'ave  a  song  o'  pore  George .''  .  .  . 
O  damn  y'  all !  " 

And  so,  with  a  mutter  and  another  tap  of  the 
stick,  he  came  creeping  along,  six  inches  at  a  step, 
the  stick  dangling  loose  again,  and  the  bow  scrap- 
ing the  strings  to  the  song : — 

Fire  on  the  fore-top,  fire  on  the  bow. 
Fire  on  the  main-deck,  fire  down  below  I 
Fire  !  fire  !  fire  doxon  below  ! 
Fetch  a  bucket  o'  water;  fire  down  beloxo  ! 

The  man's  right  eye  was  closed,  but  the  left  was 
horribly  wide  and  white  and  rolling,  and  it  quite 
[40] 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
unpleasantly  reminded  me  of  a  large  china  marble 
that  lay  at  that  moment  at  the  bottom  of  my 
breeches  pocket,  under  some  uniform  buttons,  a 
key  you  could  whistle  on,  a  brass  knob  from  a 
fender,  and  a  tangle  of  string.  So  much  indeed 
was  I  possessed  with  this  uncomfortable  resem- 
blance in  later  weeks,  when  I  had  seen  Blind 
George  often,  and  knew  more  of  him,  that  at  last 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  fling  the  marble  into  the 
river;  though  indeed  it  was  something  of  a  rarity 
in  marbles,  and  worth  four  "  alleys  "  as  big  as  it- 
self. 

My  grandfather  stopped  his  talk  as  we  drew 
within  earshot  of  the  fiddler;  but  blind  men's  ears 
are  keen  beyond  the  common.  The  bow  dropped 
from  the  fiddle,  and  Blind  George  sang  out  cheer- 
ily :  "  Why  'ere  comes  Cap'en  Nat,  'ome  from  the 
funeral;  an'  got  'is  little  grandson  what  'e's  goin' 
to  take  care  of  an'  bring  up  so  moral  in  'is  cele- 
brated 'ouse  o'  call !  "  All  to  my  extreme  amaze- 
ment: for  what  should  this  strange  blind  man 
know  of  me,  or  of  my  mother's  funeral  ? 

Grandfather  Nat  seemed  a  little  angry.    "Well, 
well,"  he  said,  "  your  ears  are  sharp.  Blind  George ; 
f  41  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
they  learn  a  lot  as  ain't  your  business.      If  your 
eyes  was  as  good  as  your  ears  you'd  ha'  had  your 
head  broke  'fore  this — a  dozen  times !  " 

"  If  my  eyes  was  as  good  as  my  ears,  Cap'en 
Nat  Kemp,"  the  other  retorted,  "  there's  many  as 
wouldn't  find  it  so  easy  to  talk  o'  breakin'  my  'ed. 
Other  people's  business !  Lord !  I  know  enough  to 
'ang  some  of  'em,  that's  what  I  know !  I  could 
tell  you  some  o'  your  business  if  I  liked, — some  as 
you  don't  know  yourself.  Look  'ere !  You  bin  to 
a  funeral.  Well,  it  ain't  the  last  funeral  as  '11  be 
wanted  in  your  family ;  see  ?  The  kid's  mother's 
gone;  don't  you  be  too  sure  'is  father's  safe!  I 
bin  along  o'  someone  you  know,  an'  'e  don't  look 
like  lastin'  for  ever,  'e  don't;  'e  ain't  in  'ealthy 
company." 

Grandfather  Nat  twitched  my  sleeve,  and  we 
walked  on. 

"  Awright !  "  the  blind  man  called  after  us,  in 
his  tone  of  affable  ferocity.  "  Awright,  go  along! 
You'll  see  things,  some  day,  near  as  well  as  I  can, 
what's  blind ! " 

"That's    a    bad    fellow,    Stevy,"    Grandfather 
Nat  said,  as  we  heard  the  fiddle  and  the  song  begin 
[42] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
again.     "  Don't  you  listen  to  neither  his  talk  nor 
his  songs.      Somehow  it  don't  seem  nat'ral  to  see  a 
blind  man  such  a  bad  'un.     But  a  bad  'un  he  is, 
up  an'  down." 

I  asked  how  he  came  to  know  about  the  funeral, 
and  especially  about  my  coming  to  Wapping — a 
thing  I  had  only  learned  of  myself  an  hour  before. 
My  grandfather  said  that  he  had  probably  learned 
of  the  funeral  from  somebody  who  had  been  at  the 
Hole  in  the  Wall  during  the  day,  and  had  asked 
the  reason  of  the  landlord's  absence;  and  as  to 
myself,  he  had  heard  my  step,  and  guessed  its 
meaning  instantly.  "  He's  a  keen,  sharp  rascal, 
Stevy,  an'  he  makes  out  all  of  parties'  business  he 
can.  He  knew  your  father  was  away,  an'  he 
jumped  the  whole  thing  at  once.  That's  his  way. 
But  I  don't  stand  him;  he  don't  come  into  my 
house  barrin'  he  comes  a  customer,  which  I  can't 
help." 

Of  the  meaning  of  the  blind  man's  talk  I  under- 
stood little.  But  he  shocked  me  with  a  sense  of  in- 
sult, and  more  with  one  of  surprise.  For  I  had 
entertained  a  belief,  born  of  Sunday-school  stories, 
that  blindness  produced  saintly  piety, — unless  it 
[  43  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 
were  the  piety  that  caused  the  blindness — and  that 
in  any  case  a  virtuous  meekness  was  an  essential 
condition  of  the  affliction.      So  I  walked  in  doubt 
and  cogitation. 

And  so,  after  a  dive  down  a  narrower  street  than 
any  we  had  yet  traversed  (it  could  scarce  be  dir- 
tier), and  a  twist  through  a  steep  and  serpentine 
alley,  we  came,  as  it  grew  dusk,  to  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall.  Of  odd-looking  riverside  inns  I  can  remem- 
ber plenty,  but  never,  before  or  since,  have  I  beheld 
an  odder  than  this  of  Grandfather  Nat's.  It  was 
wooden  and  clap-boarded,  and,  like  others  of  its 
sort,  it  was  everywhere  larger  at  top  than  at  bot- 
tom. But  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  was  not  only  top- 
heavy,  but  also  most  alarmingly  lopsided.  By  its 
side,  and  half  under  it,  lay  a  narrow  passage, 
through  which  one  saw  a  strip  of  tlic  river  and  its 
many  craft,  and  the  passage  ended  in  Hole-in-the- 
Wall  Stairs.  All  of  the  house  that  was  above  the 
ground  floor  in  this  side  rested  on  a  row  of  posts, 
which  stood  near  the  middle  of  the  passage;  and 
the  burden  of  these  posts,  twisted,  wavy,  bulging, 
and  shapeless,  hung  still  more  toward  the  opposite 
building;  while  the  farther  side,  bounded  by  a 
[  44  1 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
later  brick  house,  was  vertical,  as  though  a 
great  wedge,  point  downward,  had  been  cut  away 
to  permit  the  rise  of  the  newer  wall.  And  the  ef- 
fect was  as  of  a  reeling  and  toppling  of  the  whole 
construction  away  from  its  neighbour,  and  an  im- 
minent downfall  into  the  passage.  And  when, 
later,  I  examined  the  side  looking  across  the  river, 
supported  on  piles,  and  bulging  and  toppling  over 
them  also,  I  decided  that  what  kept  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall  from  crashing  into  the  passage  was  noth- 
ing but  its  countei'vailing  inclination  to  tumble 
into  the  river. 

Painted  large  over  the  boards  of  the  front, 
whose  lapped  edges  gave  the  letters  ragged  out- 
lines, were  the  words  THE  HOLE  IN  THE 
WALL;  and  below,  a  little  smaller,  NATHAN- 
IEL KEMP.  I  felt  a  certain  pride,  I  think,  in 
the  importance  thus  given  the  family  name,  and 
my  esteem  of  my  grandfather  increased  propor- 
tionably  with  the  size  of  the  letters. 

There   was    a    great   noise    within,    and  Grand- 
father Nat,  with  a  quick  look  toward  the  entrance, 
grunted  angrily.     But  we  passed  up  the  passage 
and  entered  by   a   private  door  under  the  posts. 
[45] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
This  door  opened  directly  into  the  bar  parlour,  the 
floor  whereof  was  two  steps  below  the  level  of  the 
outer    paving;  and    the    size    whereof   was    about 
thrice  that  of  a  sentry-box. 

The  din  of  a  quarrel  and  a  scuffle  came  from  the 
bar,  and  my  grandfather,  thrusting  me  into  a  cor- 
ner, and  giving  me  his  hat,  ran  out  with  a  roar  like 
that  of  a  wild  beast.  At  the  sound  the  quarrel 
hushed  in  its  height.  "  What's  this .''  "  my  gi-and- 
father  blared,  with  a  thump  on  the  counter  that 
made  the  pots  jump.  "  What  sort  of  a  row's  this 
in  my  house.''  Damme,  I'll  break  y'  in  halves, 
every  mother's  son  of  ye !  " 

I  peeped  through  the  glass  partition,  and  saw, 
first,  the  back  of  the  potman's  head  (for  the  bar- 
floor  took  another  drop)  and  beyond  that  and  the 
row  of  beer-pulls,  a  group  of  rough,  hulking  men, 
one  with  blood  on  his  face,  and  all  with  an  odd  look 
of  sulky  guilt. 

"  Out  you  go ! "  pursued  Grandfather  Nat, 
"  every  swab  o'  ye !  Can't  leave  the  place  not  even 
to  go  to — not  for  nothin',  without  a  row  like  this, 
givin'  the  house  a  bad  name!  Go  on,  Jim  Crute! 
Unless  I'm  to  chuck  ye !  " 

[46] 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
The  men  had  begun  filing  out  awkwardly,  with 
nothing  but  here  and  there :  "  Awright,  guv'nor  " 
— "  Awright,  cap'en  " — "  Goin',  ain't  I?  "  and  the 
like.  But  one  big  ruffian  lagged  behind,  scowling 
and  murmuring  rebelliously. 

In  a  flash  Grandfather  Nat  was  through  the 
counter-wicket.  With  a  dart  of  his  long  left  arm 
he  had  gripped  the  fellow's  ear  and  spun  him 
round  with  a  wrench  that  I  thought  had  torn  the 
ear  from  the  head ;  and  in  the  same  moment  had 
caught  him  by  the  opposite  wrist,  so  as  to  stretch 
the  man's  extended  arm,  elbow  backward,  across 
his  own  great  chest;  a  posture  in  which  the  back- 
ward pull  against  the  elbow- joint  brought  a  yell  of 
agony  from  the  victim.  Only  a  man  with  extraor- 
dinarily long  arms  could  have  done  the  thing  ex- 
actly like  that.  The  movement  was  so  savagely 
sudden  that  my  grandfather  had  kicked  open  the 
door  and  flung  Jim  Crute  headlong  into  the  street 
ere  I  quite  understood  it;  when  there  came  a  check 
in  my  throat  and  tears  in  my  eyes  to  see  the  man 
so  cruelly  handled. 

Grandfather  Nat  stood  a  moment  at  the  door, 
but  it  seemed   that  his   customer  was  quelled  ef- 
[47] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
fectually,  for  presently  he  turned  inward  again, 
with  such  a  grim  scowl  as  I  had  never  seen  before. 
And  at  that  a  queer  head  appeared  just  above  the 
counter — I  had  supposed  the  bar  to  be  wholly 
cleared — and  a  very  weak  and  rather  womanish 
voice  said,  in  tones  of  over-inflected  indignation: 
"  Serve  'em  right,  Cap'en  Kemp,  I'm  sure.  Lot 
o'  impudent  vagabones!  Ought  to  be  ashamed  o' 
theirselves,  that  they  ought.  Pity  every  'ouse 
ain't  kep'  as  strict  as  this  one  is,  that's  what  I 
say!" 

And  the  queer  head  looked  round  the  vacant  bar 
with  an  air  of  virtuous  defiance,  as  though  anxious 
to  meet  the  eye  of  any  so  bold  as  to  contradict. 

It  was  anything  but  a  clean  face,  on  the  head, 
and  it  was  overshadowed  by  a  very  greasy  wide- 
awake hat.  Grubbiness  and  unhealthy  redness 
contended  for  mastery  in  the  features,  of  which 
the  nose  was  the  most  surprising,  wide  and  bulbous 
and  knobbed  all  over;  so  that  ever  afterward,  in 
any  attempt  to  look  Mr.  Cripps  in  the  face,  I  found 
myself  wholly  disregarding  his  eyes,  and  fixing 
a  fascinated  gaze  on  his  nose ;  and  I  could  never 
recall  his  face  to  memory  as  I  recalled  another,  but 
[48] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
always  as  a  Nose,  garnished  with  a  fringe  of  infe- 
rior features.  The  face  had  been  shaved — appar- 
ently about  a  week  before;  and  by  the  sides  hung 
long  hair,  dirtier  to  look  at  than  the  rest  of  the 
apparition. 

My  grandfather  gave  no  more  than  a  glance  in 
the  direction  of  this  little  man,  passed  the  counter 
and  rejoined  me,  pulling  off  his  coat  as  he  came. 
Something  of  my  tingling  eyes  and  screwed  mouth 
was  visible,  I  suppose,  for  he  stooped  as  he  rolled 
up  his  shirt-sleeves  and  said :  "  Why,  Stevy  boy, 
what's  amiss  ?  " 

"  You — you — hurt  the  man's  ear,"  I  said,  with 
a  choke  and  a  sniff ;  for  till  then  Grandfather  Nat 
had  seemed  to  me  the  kindest  man  in  the  world. 

Grandfather  Nat  looked  mightily  astonished. 
He  left  his  shirt-sleeve  where  it  was,  and  thrust  his 
fingers  up  in  his  hair  behind,  through  the  grey  and 
out  at  the  brown  on  top.  "What.''"  he  said. 
"  Hurt  'im.P  Hurt  'im?  Why,  s'pose  I  did.'' 
He  ain't  a  friend  o'  yours,  is  he,  young  'un.''  " 

I  shook  my   head   and   blinked.      There   was   a 
gleam    of   amusement   in    my    grandfather's   grim 
face  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  and  took  me  between  his 
[49] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

knees.  "  Hurt  'im  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Why,  Lord 
love  ye,  Vd  get  hurt  if  I  didn't  hurt  some  of  'em, 
now  an'  then.  They're  a  rough  lot — a  bitter  bad 
lot  round  here,  an'  it's  hurt  or  be  hurt  with  them, 
Stevy.  I  got  to  frighten  'em,  my  boy — an'  I  do 
it,  too." 

I  was  passing  my  fingers  to  and  fro  in  the  mat- 
ted hair  on  my  grandfather's  arm,  and  thinking. 
He  seemed  a  very  terrible  man  now,  and  perhaps 
something  of  a  hero;  for,  young  as  I  was,  I  was 
a  boy.  So  presently  I  said,  "  Did  you  ever  kill 
a  man.  Gran' fa'  Nat  ?  " 


[50] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Ci)apter  font 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


IfxANY  small  matters  of  my  first  few  hours  at 
the  Hole  in  the  Wall  were  impressed  on  me  by  later 
events.  In  particular  I  remember  the  innocent  cu- 
riosity with  which  I  asked,  "  Did  you  ever  kill  a 
man,  Gran'fa'  Nat?  " 

There  was  a  twitch  and  a  frown  on  my  grand- 
father's face,  and  he  sat  back  as  one  at  a  moment's 
disadvantage.  I  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  try- 
ing to  remember.  But  he  only  said,  gruffly,  and 
with  a  quick  sound  like  a  snort :  "  Very  nigh 
killed  myself  once  or  twice  Stevy,  in  my  time,"  and 
rose  hastily  from  his  chair  to  reach  a  picture  of  a 
ship  that  was  standing  on  a  shelf.  "  There,"  he 
said,  "that's  a  new  'un,  just  done;  pretty  picter, 
ain't  it.''  An'  that  there,"  pointing  to  another 
hanging  on  the  wall,  "  that's  the  Juno,  what  your 
father's  on  now." 

I   had   noticed  that  the  walls,  both  of  the  bar 

and  of  the  bar-parlour,  were  plentifully  hung  with 

paintings   of  ships ;  ships  becalmed,  ships  in   full 

sail,  ships  under  bare  spars ;  all  with  painful  blue 

[53] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
skies  over  them,  and  very  even-waved  seas  beneath; 
and  ships  in  storms,  with  torn  sails,  pursued  by 
rumbustious  piles  of  sooty  cloud,  and  pelted  with 
lengths  of  scarlet  lightning.  I  fear  I  should  not 
have  recognised  my  father's  ship  without  help, 
but  that  was  probably  because  I  had  only  seen  it, 
months  before,  lying  in  dock,  battered  and  dingy, 
with  a  confusion  of  casks  and  bales  about  the  deck, 
and  naked  yards  dangling  above;  whereas  in  the 
picture  (which  was  a  mile  too  small  for  the  brig) 
it  was  booming  along  under  a  flatulent  mountain 
of  clean  white  sail,  and  bulwarks  and  deck-fittings 
were  gay  with  lively  and  diversified  colour. 

I  said  something  about  its  being  a  fine  ship,  or  a 
fine  picture ;  and  that  there  were  a  lot  of  them. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  they  do  mount  up,  one  arter 
another.  It's  one  gentleman  as  did  'em  all — him 
out  in  the  bar  now,  with  the  long  hair.  Sometimes 
I  think  I'd  rather  a-had  money ;  but  it's  a  talent, 
that's  what  it  is !  " 

The  artist  beyond  the  outer  bar  had  been  talk- 
ing to  the  potman.      Now  he  coughed  and  said: 
"  Ha— um  !      Cap'en  Kemp,  sir !       Cap'en  Kemp ! 
No  doubt  as  you've  'eard  the  noos  to-day  ?  " 
[54] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  No,"  said  Grandfather  Nat,  finishing  the  roll- 
ing of  his  shirt-sleeves  as  he  stepped  down  into  the 
bar ;  "  not  as  I  know  on.    What  is  it?  " 

"  Not  about  Viney  and  Marr  ?  " 

"No.     What  about 'em.?" 

Mr.  Cripps  rose  on  his  toes  with  the  importance 
of  his  information,  and  his  eyes  widened  to  a  mo- 
ment's rivalry  with  his  nose.  "  Gone  wrong,"  he 
said,  in  a  shrill  whisper  that  was  as  loud  as  his  nat- 
ural voice.  "  Gone  wrong.  Unsolvent.  Cracked 
up.  Broke.  Busted,  in  a  common  way  o'  speak- 
in'."  And  he  gave  a  violent  nod  with  each  syno- 
nym. 

"  No,"  said  Grandfather  Nat ;  "  surely  not  Viney 
and  Marr.?" 

"  Fact,  Cap'en ;  I  can  assure  you,  on  'igh  a'thor- 
ity.  It's  what  I  might  call  the  universal  topic  in 
neighbourin'  circles,  an'  a  gen'ral  subjick  o'  local 
discussion.  You'd  'a  'card  it  'fore  this  if  you'd 
bin  at  'ome." 

My  grandfather  whistled,  and  rested  a  hand  on 
a  beer-pull. 

"  Not  a  stiver  for  nobody,  they  say,"  Mr.  Cripps 
pursued,  "  not  till  they  can  sell  the  wessels.  What 
[55  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
there  was  loose  Marr's  bolted  with ;  or,  as  you  might 
put  it,   absconded ;   absconded   with  the   proceeds. 
An'  gone  abroad,  it's  said." 

"  I  see  the  servant  gal  bringin'  out  her  box  from 
Viney's  just  now,"  said  Grandfather  Nat.  "  An' 
Crooks  the  ship-chandler  was  on  the  steps,  very 
white  in  the  gills,  with  a  paper.  Well,  well!  An' 
you  saj'  INIarr's  bolted  ?  " 

"  Absconded,  Cap'en  Kemp ;  absconded  with  the 
proceeds ;  'oppcd  the  twig.  Viney  says  'e's  robbed 
'im  as  well  as  the  creditors,  but  I  'ear  some  o'  the 
creditors'  observation  is  '  gammon.'  An'  they  say 
the  wessels  is  pawned  up  to  their  r'yals.  Up  to 
their  r'yals !  " 

"  Well,"  commented  my  grandfather,  "  I 
wouldn't  ha'  thought  it.  The  Juno  was  that  badly 
found,  an'  they  did  everything  that  cheap,  I 
thought  they  made  money  hand  over  fist." 

"  Flyin'  too  'igh,  Cap'en  Kemp,  flyin'  too  'igh. 
You  knowed  Viney  long  'fore  'e  elevated  hisself 
into  a  owner,  didn't  you?  What  was  he  then.'' 
Why  'e  was  your  mate  one  voy'ge,  wasn't  'e.^*  " 

"  Ay,  an'  more." 

"  So  I've  'card  tell.     Well  arter  that  surely  'e 
[56  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
was   flyin'  too  'igh!     An'   now   Man-'s   absconded 
with  the  proceeds  !  " 

The  talk  in  the  bar  went  on,  being  almost  entirely 
the  talk  of  Mr.  Cripps ;  who  valued  himself  on  the 
unwonted  importance  his  news  gave  him,  and  aimed 
at  increasing  it  by  saying  the  same  thing  a  great 
many  times;  by  saying  it,  too,  when  he  could,  in 
terms  and  phrases  that  had  a  strong  flavour  of  the 
Sunday  paper.  But  as  for  me,  I  soon  ceased  to 
hear,  for  I  discovered  something  of  greater  interest 
on  the  shelf  that  skirted  the  bar-parlour.  It  was  a 
little  model  of  a  ship  in  a  glass  case,  and  it  was  a 
great  marvel  to  me,  with  all  its  standing  and  run- 
ning rigging  complete,  and  a  most  ingenious  and 
tumultuous  sea  about  it,  made  of  stiff  calico  cockled 
up  into  lumps  and  ridges,  and  painted  the  proper 
colour.  Much  better  than  either  of  the  two  we  had 
at  home,  for  these  latter  were  only  half-models,  each 
nothing  but  one-half  of  a  little  ship  split  from  stem 
to  stern,  and  stuck  against  a  board,  on  which  were 
painted  sky,  clouds,  sea-gulls,  and  (in  one  case)  a 
lighthouse;  an  exasperating  make-believe  that  had 
been  my  continual  disappointment.  But  this  was 
altogether  so  charming  and  delightful  and  real,  and 
[57] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

the  little  hatches  and  cuddy-houses  so  thrilled  my 
fancy,  that  I  resolved  to  beg  of  my  grandfather 
to  let  me  call  the  model  my  own,  and  sometimes  have 
the  glass  case  off.  So  I  was  absorbed  while  the 
conversation  in  the  bar  ranged  from  the  ships  and 
their  owners  to  my  father,  and  from  him  to  me; 
as  was  plain  when  my  grandfather  called  me. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  my  grandfather,  with  a  deal 
of  pride  in  his  voice,  putting  his  foot  on  a  stool  and 
lifting  me  on  his  knee.  "  Here  he  is,  an'  a  plucked 
'un ;  ain't  ye,  Stevy "?  "  He  rubbed  his  hand  over 
my  head,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing.  "  Plucked  ^ 
Ah !  Why,  he  was  agoin'  to  keep  house  all  by  his- 
self,  with  all  the  pluck  in  life,  till  his  father  come 
home !  Warn't  ye,  Stevy  boy?  But  he's  come  along 
o'  me  instead,  an'  him  an'  me's  goin'  to  keep  the 
Hole  in  the  Wall  together,  ain't  we  ?  Pardners,  eh, 
Stevy?" 

I  think  I  never  afterward  saw  my  grandfather 
talking  so  familiarly  with  his  customers.  I  per- 
ceived now  that  there  was  another  in  the  bar  in  ad- 
dition to  Mr.  Cripps;  a  pale,  quiet,  and  rather 
ragged  man  who  sat  in  an  obscure  corner  with  an 
untouched  glass  of  liquor  by  him. 
[58] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  Come,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  have  one  with 
me,  Mr.  Cripps,  an'  drink  the  new  pardner's  health. 
What  is  it?  An'  you — you  drink  up  too  an'  have 
another."  This  last  order  Grandfather  Nat  flung 
at  the  man  in  the  corner,  just  in  the  tones  in  which 
I  had  heard  a  skipper  on  a  ship  tell  a  man  to  "  get 
forr'ard  lively  "  with  a  rope  fender,  opposite  our 
quay  at  Blackwall. 

"  I'm  sure  'ere's  wishin'  the  young  master  every 
'ealth  an'  'appiness,"  said  Mr.  Cripps,  beaming  on 
me  with  a  grin  that  rather  frightened  than  pleased 
me,  it  twisted  the  nose  so.  "  Every  'ealth  an'  'ap- 
piness, I'm  sure ! " 

The  pale  man  in  the  corner  only  looked  up 
quickly,  as  if  fearful  of  obtruding  himself,  gulped 
the  drink  that  had  been  standing  by  him,  and  re- 
ceiving another,  put  it  down  untasted  where  the 
first  had  stood, 

"  That  ain't  drinkin'  a  health,"  said  my  grand- 
father, angrily.  "  There — that's  it !  "  and  he 
pointed  to  the  new  drink  with  the  hand  that  held 
his  own. 

The  pale  man  lifted  it  hurriedly,  stood  up,  looked 
at  me  and  said  something  indistinct,  gulped  the 
[59] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

liquor  and  returned  the  glass  to  the  counter ;  where- 
upon the  potman,  without  orders,  instantly  refilled 
it,  and  the  man  carried  it  back  to  his  corner  and 
put  it  down  beside  him,  as  before. 

I  began  to  wonder  if  the  pale  man  suffered  from 
some  complaint  that  made  it  dangerous  to  leave  him 
without  a  drink  close  at  hand,  ready  to  be  swal- 
lowed at  a  moment's  notice.  But  Mr.  Cripps 
blinked,  first  at  his  own  glass  and  then  at  the  pale 
man's;  and  I  fancy  he  thought  himself  unfairly 
treated. 

Howbeit  his  affability  was  unconquerable.  He 
grinned  and  snapped  his  fingers  playfully  at  me, 
provoking  my  secret  indignation ;  since  that  was 
what  people  did  to  please  babies. 

"  An'  a  pretty  young  gent  'e  is  too,"  said 
Mr.  Cripps,  "  of  considerable  personal  attractions. 
Goin'  to  bring  Mm  up  to  the  trade,  I  s'pose,  Cap'en 
Kemp  ? " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Grandfather  Nat,  with  some 
dignity.  "  No.  Something  better  than  that,  I'm 
hopin'.  Pardners  is  all  very  well  for  a  bit,  but 
Stevy's  goin'  to  be  a  cut  above  his  poor  old  gran'- 
father,  if  I  can  do  it.  Eh,  boy.''  "  He  rubbed  my 
[60] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

head  again,  and  I  was  too  shy,  sitting  there  in  the 
bar,  to  answer.  "  Eh,  boy?  Boardin'  school  an'  a 
gentleman's  job  for  this  one,  if  the  old  man  has 
his  wa}'." 

Mr.  Cripps  shook  his  head  sagaciously,  and  could 
plainly  see  that  I  was  cut  out  for  a  statesman.  He 
also  lifted  his  empty  glass,  looked  at  it  abstract- 
edly, and  put  it  down  again.  Nothing  coming  of 
this,  he  complimented  my  personal  appearance  once 
more,  and  thought  that  my  portrait  should  cer- 
tainly be  painted,  as  a  memorial  in  my  future  days 
of  greatness. 

This  notion  seemed  to  strike  my  grandfather 
rather  favourably,  and  he  forthwith  consulted  a 
slate  which  dangled  by  a  string;  during  his  con- 
templation of  which,  with  its  long  rows  of  strokes, 
Mr.  Cripps  betrayed  a  certain  anxious  discomfort. 
"Well,"  said  Grandfather  Nat  at  length,  "you 
are  pretty  deep  in,  you  know,  an'  it  might  as  well 
be  that  as  anything  else.  But  what  about  that 
sign.''    Ain't  I  ever  goin'  to  get  that.'*  " 

Mr.  Cripps  knitted  his  brows  and  his  nose,  turned 
up  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head.  "  It  ain't  come  to 
me  yet,  Cap'en  Kemp,"  he  said ;  "  not  yet.  I'm 
I  61  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

still  waiting  for  what  you  might  call  an  inspira- 
tion. But  when  it  comes,  Cap'en  Kemp — when  it 
comes !  Ah !  you'll  'ave  a  sign  then !  Sich  a  sign ! 
You'll  'ave  sich  a  sign  as'U  attract  the  'ole  artistic 
feelin'  of  Wapping  an'  surroundin'  districks  of 
the  metropolis,  I  assure  you.  An'  the  signs  on  the 
other  'ouses — phoo !  "  Mr.  Cripps  made  a  sweep 
of  the  hand  which  I  took  to  indicate  generally  that 
all  other  publicans,  overwhelmed  with  humiliation, 
would  have  no  choice  but  straightway  to  tear  down 
their  own  signs  and  bury  them. 

"  Umph !  but  meanwhile  I  haven't  got  one 
at  all,"  objected  Grandfather  Nat;  "an'  they 
have." 

"  Ah,  yes,  sir — some  sort  o'  signs.  But  done  by 
mere  jobbers,  an'  poor  enough  too.  My  hart, 
Cap'en  Kemp — I  respect  my  hart,  an'  I  don't  rush 
at  a  job  like  that.  It  wants  conception,  sir,  a  job 
like  that — conception.  The  common  sort  o'  sign's 
easy  enough.  You  go  at  it,  an'  you  do  it  or  hexi- 
cute  it,  an'  when  it's  done  or  hexicuted — why  there 
it  is.  A  ship,  maybe,  or  a  crown,  or  a  Turk's  'ed 
or  three  cats  an'  a  fryin'  pan.  Simple  enough 
• — no  plannin',  no  composition,  no  invention.  But 
[62  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
a  'ole  in  a  wall,  Cap'en  Kemp — it  takes  a  hartist  to 
make  a  picter  o'  that ;  an'  it  takes  study,  an'  medi- 
tation, an'  invention !  " 

"  Simplest  thing  o'  the  lot,"  said  Captain  Nat. 
"  A  wall,  an'  a  hole  in  it.  Simplest  thing  o'  the 
lot!" 

"  As  you  observe,  Cap'en  Kemp,  it  may  seem 
simple  enough ;  that's  because  you're  thinkin'  o' 
subjick,  instead  o'  treatment.  A  common  jobber, 
if  you'll  excuse  my  say  in'  it,  'ud  look  at  it  just  in 
that  light — a  wall  with  a  'ole  in  it,  an'  'e'd  give  it 
you,  an'  p'rhaps  you'd  be  satisfied  with  it.  But  I 
soar  'igher,  sir,  'igher.  What  I  shall  give  you'll 
be  a  'ole  in  the  wall  to  charm  the  heye  and  delight 
the  intelleck,  sir.  A  dramatic  'ole  in  the  wall,  sir, 
a  hepic  'ole  in  the  wall ;  a  'ole  in  the  wall  as  will 
elevate  the  mind  and  stimilate  the  noblest  instinks 
of  the  be'older.  Cap'en  Kemp,  I  don't  'esitate  to 
say  that  my  'ole  in  the  wall,  when  you  get  it,  will 
be —  ah!  it'll  be  the  moral  palladium  of  Wap- 
ping !  " 

"  When  I  get  it,"  my  grandfather  replied  with 
a  chuckle,  "  anything  might  happen  without  sur- 
prisin'  me.     I  think  p'rhaps  I  might  be  so  startled 
[63] 


THE      HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

as  to  forget  the  bit  you've  had  on  account,  an'  pay 
full  cash." 

Mr.  Cripps's  eyes  brightened  at  the  hint. 
"  You're  always  very  'andsome  in  matters  o'  busi- 
ness, Cap'en  Kemp,"  he  said,  "  an'  I  always  say 
so.  Which  reminds  me,  speakin'  of  'andsome 
things.  This  morning,  goin'  to  see  my  friend  as 
keeps  the  mortuary,  I  see  as  'andsome  a  bit  o' 
panel  for  to  paint  a  sign  as  ever  I  come  across. 
A  lovely  bit  o'  stuff  to  be  sure — enough  to  stimi- 
late  anybody's  artistic  invention  to  look  at  it,  that 
it  was.  Not  dear  neither — particular  moderate  in 
fact.  I'm  afraid  it  may  be  gone  now;  but  if  I'd 
'a  'ad  the  money " 

A  noise  of  trampling  and  singing  without  neared 
the  door,  and  with  a  bang  and  a  stagger  a  party 
of  fresh  customers  burst  in  and  swept  Mr.  Cripps 
out  of  his  exposition.  Two  were  sun-browned  sail- 
ors, shouting  and  jovial,  but  the  rest,  men  and 
women,  sober  and  villainous  in  their  mock  jollity, 
were  land-sharks  plain  to  see.  The  foremost  sailor 
drove  against  Mr.  Cripps,  and  having  almost 
knocked  him  down,  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
involved  him  in  his  flounderings;  apologising, 
[64] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
meanwhile,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  demanding 
to  know  what  Mr.  Cripps  would  drink.  Where- 
upon Grandfather  Nat  sent  me  back  to  the  bar- 
parlour  and  the  little  ship,  and  addressed  himself 
to  business  and  the  order  of  the  bar. 

And  so  he  was  occupied  for  the  most  of  the  even- 
ing. Sometimes  he  sat  with  me  and  taught  me  the 
spars  and  rigging  of  the  model,  sometimes  I  peeped 
through  the  glass  at  the  business  of  the  house.  The 
bar  remained  pretty  full  throughout  the  evening, 
in  its  main  part,  and  my  grandfather  ruled  its  fre- 
quenters with  a  strong  voice  and  an  iron  hand. 
But  there  was  one  little  space  partitioned  off,  as 
it  might  be  for  the  better  company :  wBich  space 
was  nearly  always  empty.  Into  this  quieter  com- 
partment I  saw  a  man  come,  rather  late  in  the  even- 
ing, furtive  and  a  little  flustered.  He  was  an  ugly 
ruffian  with  a  broken  nose;  and  he  was  noticeable 
as  being  the  one  man  I  had  seen  in  my  grandfather's 
house  who  had  no  marks  of  seafaring  or  riverside 
life  about  him,  but  seemed  merely  an  ordinary  Lon- 
don blackguard  from  some  unmaritime  neighbour- 
hood. He  beckoned  silently  to  Grandfather  Nat, 
who  walked  across  and  conferred  with  him.  Pres- 
[65] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
ently  my  grandfather  left  the  counter  and  came 
into  the  bar-parlour.  He  had  something  in  his 
closed  hand,  which  he  carried  to  the  lamp  to  ex- 
amine, so  that  I  could  see  it  was  a  silver  watch; 
while  the  furtive  man  waited  expectantly  in  the 
little  compartment.  The  watch  interested  me,  for 
the  inward  part  swung  clean  out  from  the  case, 
and  hung  by  a  single  hinge,  in  a  way  I  had  never 
seen  before.  I  noticed,  also,  that  a  large  capital 
letter  M  was  engraved  on  the  back. 

Grandfather  Nat  shut  the  watch  and  strode  into 
the  bar. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said  aloud,  handing  it  to 
the  brokeu-nosed  man.  "  Here  you  are.  It  seems 
all  right — good  enough  watch,  I  should  say." 

The  man  was  plainly  disconcerted — frightened, 
indeed — by  this  public  observation ;  and  answered 
with  an  eager  whisper. 

"  What  ?  "  my  grandfather  replied,  louder  than 
ever ;  "  want  me  to  buy  it  ?  Not  me.  This  ain't 
a  pawn-shop.  I  don't  want  a  watch ;  an'  if  I  did, 
how  do  I  know  where  you  got  it.?  " 

Much  discomposed  by  this  rebuff,  the  fellow  hur- 
ried off.     Whereupon  I  was  surprised  to  see  the 
[66] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
pale  man  rise  from  the  corner  of  the  bar,  put  his 
drink,  still  untasted,  in  a  safe  place  on  the  counter, 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  partition,  and  hurry  out 
also.  Cogitating  this  matter  in  my  grandfather's 
arm-chair,  presently  I  fell  asleep. 

What  woke  me  at  length  was  the  loud  voice  of 
Grandfather  Nat,  and  I  found  that  it  was  late,  and 
he  was  clearing  the  bar  before  shutting  up.  I 
rubbed  m^^  eyes  and  looked  out,  and  was  interested 
to  see  that  the  pale  man  had  come  back,  and  was 
now  swallowing  his  drink  at  last  before  going  out 
after  the  rest.  Whereat  I  turned  again,  drowsily 
enough,  to  the  model  ship. 

But  a  little  later,  when  Grandfather  Nat  and  I 
were  at  supper  in  the  bar-parlour,  and  I  was  drop- 
ping to  sleep  again,  I  was  amazed  to  see  my  grand- 
father pull  the  broken-nosed  man's  watch  out  of 
his  pocket  and  put  it  in  a  tin  cash-box.  At  that 
I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  opened  them  so  wide  on  the 
cash-box,  that  Grandfather  Nat  said,  "  Hullo, 
Stevy!  Woke  up  with  a  jump.''  Time  you  was 
in  bed." 


[67 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

C|)apter  jfi\)e 


IN  THE  HIGHWAY 


X  HE  Hole  in  the  Wall  being  closed,  its  customers 
went  their  several  ways;  the  sailors,  shouting  and 
singing,  drifting  off  with  their  retinue  along 
Wapping  Wall  toward  RatclifF ;  Mr.  Cripps,  fuller 
than  usual  of  free  drinks — for  the  sailors  had  come 
a  long  voyage  and  were  proportionably  liberal — 
scuffling  off,  steadily  enough,  on  the  way  that  led  to 
Limehouse;  for  Mr.  Cripps  had  drunk  too  much 
and  too  long  ever  to  be  noticeably  drunk.  And  last 
of  all,  when  the  most  undecided  of  the  stragglers 
from  Captain  Nat  Kemp's  bar  had  vanished  one 
way  or  another,  the  pale,  quiet  man  moved  out  from 
the  shadow  and  went  in  the  wake  of  the  noisy 
sailors. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  streets.  The  lamps 
were  few  and  feeble,  and  angles,  alleys,  and  entries 
were  shapes  of  blackness  that  seemed  more  solid  than 
the  walls  about  them.  But  instead  of  the  silence 
that  consorts  with  gloom,  the  air  was  racked  with 
human  sounds;  sounds  of  quarrels,  scuffles,  and 
brawls,  far  and  near,  breaking  out  fitfully  amid  the 
[71] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
general  buzz  and  whoop  of  discordant  singing  that 
came  from  all  Wapping  and  Ratcliff  where  rev- 
ellers rolled  into  the  open. 

A  stone's  throw  on  the  pale  man's  way  was  a 
swing  bridge  with  a  lock  by  its  side,  spanning  the 
channel  that  joined  two  dock-basins.  The  pale 
man,  passing  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  footpath, 
stopped  in  an  angle.  Three  policemen  were  com- 
ing over  the  bridge  in  company — they  went  in  threes 
in  these  parts — and  the  pale  man,  who  never  made 
closer  acquaintance  with  the  police  than  he  could 
help,  slunk  down  by  the  bridge-foot,  as  though  de- 
signing to  make  the  crossing  by  way  of  the  narrow 
lock ;  no  safe  passage  in  the  dark.  But  he  thought 
better  of  it,  and  went  by  the  bridge,  as  soon  as  the 
policemen  had  passed. 

A  little  farther  and  he  was  in  Ratcliff  Highway, 
where  it  joined  with  Shadwell  High  Street,  and  just 
before  him  stood  Paddy's  Goose.  The  house  was 
known  by  that  name  far  beyond  the  neighbourhood, 
among  people  who  were  unaware  that  the  actual 
painted  sign  was  the  White  Swan.  Paddy's  Goose 
was  still  open,  for  its  doors  never  closed  till  one; 
though  there  were  a  few  houses  later  even  than  this, 
[72] 


IN  THE  HIGHWAY 
where,  though  the  bars  were  cleared  and  closed  at 
one,  in  accordance  with  Act  of  Parliament,  the 
doors  swung  wide  again  ten  minutes  later.  There 
was  still  dancing  within  at  Paddy's  Goose,  and  the 
squeak  of  fiddles  and  the  thump  of  feet  were  plain 
to  hear.  The  pale  man  passed  on  into  the  dark 
beyond  its  lights,  and  soon  the  black  mouth  of 
Blue  Gate  stood  on  his  right. 

Blue  Gate  gave  its  part  to  the  night's  noises,  and 
more;  for  a  sudden  burst  of  loud  screams — a 
woman's — rent  the  air  from  its  innermost  deeps; 
screams  which  affected  the  pale  man  not  at  all,  nor 
any  other  passenger;  for  it  might  be  murder  or  it 
might  be  drink,  or  sudden  rage  or  fear,  or  a  quarrel ; 
and  whatever  it  might  be  was  common  enough  in 
Blue  Gate. 

Paddy's  Goose  had  no  monopoly  of  music,  and 
the  common  plenty  of  street  fiddlers  was  the  greater 
as  the  early  houses  closed.  Scarce  eighty  yards 
from  Blue  Gate  stood  Blind  George,  fiddling  his 
hardest  for  a  party  dancing  in  the  roadway.  Many 
were  looking  on,  drunk  or  sober,  with  approving 
shouts ;  and  every  face  was  ghastly  phosphorescent 
in  the  glare  of  a  ship's  blue  light  that  a  noisy  negro 
[73] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
flourished  among  the  dancers.  Close  by,  a  woman 
and  a  man  were  quarrelling  in  the  middle  of  a 
group ;  but  the  matter  had  no  attention  till  of  a 
sudden  it  sprang  into  a  fight,  and  the  man  and  an- 
other were  puncliing  and  wrestling  in  a  heap,  bare 
to  the  waist.  At  this  the  crowd  turned  from  the 
dancers,  and  the  negro  ran  yelping  to  shed  his 
deathly  light  on  the  new  scene. 

The  crowd  howled  and  scrambled,  and  a  drunken 
sailor  fell  in  the  nmd.  Quick  at  the  chance,  a  ruf- 
fian took  him  under  the  armpits  and  dragged  him 
from  among  the  trampling  feet  to  a  near  entry,  out 
of  the  glare.  There  he  propped  his  prey,  with  many 
friendly  words,  and  dived  among  his  pockets.  The 
sailor  was  dazed,  and  made  no  difficulty ;  till  the 
thief  got  to  the  end  of  the  search  in  a  trouser 
pocket,  and  thence  pulled  a  handful  of  silver.  With 
that  the  victim  awoke  to  some  sense  of  affairs,  and 
made  a  move  to  rise ;  but  the  other  sprang  up  and 
laid  him  over  with  a  kick  on  the  head,  just  as  the 
pale  man  came  along.  The  thief  made  off,  leaving 
a  few  shillings  and  sixpences  on  the  ground,  which 
the  pale  man  instantly  gathered  up.  He  looked 
from  the  money  to  the  man,  who  lay  insensible,  with 
[74  J 


IN     THE     HIGHWAY 
blood  about  his  ear ;  and  then  from  the  man  to  the 
money.     Then  he  stuffed  some  few  of  the  shilHngs 
into  the  sailor's  nearest  pocket  and  went  off  with 
the  rest. 

The  fight  rose  and  fell,  the  crowd  grew,  and  the 
blue  light  burned  down.  In  twenty  seconds  the  pale 
man  was  back  again.  He  bent  over  the  bleeding 
sailor,  thrust  the  rest  of  the  silver  into  the  pocket, 
and  finally  vanished  into  the  night.  For,  indeed, 
though  the  pale  man  was  poor,  and  though  he  got 
a  living  now  in  a  way  scarce  reputable :  yet  he  had 
once  kept  a  chandler's  shop.  He  had  kept  it  till 
neither  sand  in  the  sugar  nor  holes  under  the 
weights  would  any  longer  induce  it  to  keep  him; 
and  then  he  had  fallen  wholly  from  respectability. 
But  he  had  drawn  a  line — he  had  always  drawn  a 
line.  He  had  never  been  a  thief ;  and,  with  a  little 
struggle,  he  remembered  it  now. 

Back  in  Blue  Gate  the  screams  had  ceased.  For 
on  a  back  stair  a  large  bony  man  shook  a  woman 
by  the  throat,  so  that  she  could  scream  no  more. 
He  cursed  in  whispers,  and  threatened  her  with  an 
end  of  all  noise  if  she  opened  her  mouth  again. 
[75] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 

"  Ye  stop  out  of  it  all  this  time,"  he  said,  "  an' 
when  ye  come  ye  squall  enough  to  bring  the  slops 
from  Arbour  Square !  " 

"  O !    O !  "  the  woman  gasped.      "  I  fell  on  it, 
Dan !  I  fell  on  it !  I  fell  on  it  in  the  dark !  "    .    .    . 

There  was  nothing  commoner  in  the  black  streets 
about  the  Highway  than  the  sight  of  two  or  three 
men  linked  by  the  arms,  staggering,  singing,  and 
bawling.  Many  such  parties  went  along  the  High- 
way that  night,  many  turned  up  its  foul  tribu- 
taries ;  some  went  toward  and  over  the  bridge  by  the 
lock  that  was  on  the  way  to  the  Hole  in  the  Wall. 
But  they  were  become  fewer,  and  the  night  noises 
of  the  Highway  were  somewhat  abated  when  a 
party  of  three  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  Blue 
Gate,  Of  them  that  had  gone  before  the  songs 
were  broken  and  the  voices  unmelodious  enough ; 
yet  no  other  song  sung  that  night  in  the  Highway 
was  so  wild  as  the  song  of  these  men — or  rather  of 
two  of  them,  who  sang  the  louder  because  of  the 
silence  of  the  man  between  them  ;  and  no  other  voices 
were  so  ill-governed  as  theirs.  The  man  on  the  right 
[76  1 


IN     THE     HIGHWAY 

was  large,  bony,  and  powerful;  he  on  the  left  was 
shorter  and  less  to  be  noticed,  except  that  under 
some  rare  and  feeble  lamp  it  might  have  been  per- 
ceived that  his  face  was  an  ugly  one,  with  a  broken 
nose.  But  what  reveller  so  drunk,  what  drunkard 
so  insensible,  what  clod  so  silent  as  the  man  they 
dragged  between  them?  His  feet  trailed  in  the 
mire,  and  his  head,  hidden  by  a  ragged  hat,  hung 
forward  on  his  chest.  So  they  went,  reeling  ever 
where  the  shadows  were  thickest,  toward  the  bridge ; 
but  in  all  their  reelings  there  was  a  stealthy  hasting 
forward,  and  an  anxious  outlook  that  went  ill  with 
their  song.  The  song  itself,  void  alike  of  tune  and 
jollity,  fell  off  altogether  as  they  ncared  the  bridge, 
and  here  they  went  the  quicker.  They  turned  down 
by  the  bridge  foot,  though  not  for  the  reason  the 
pale  man  had,  two  hours  before,  for  now  no  police- 
man was  in  sight ;  and  soon  were  gone  into  the  black 
shadow  about  the  lock-head. 

It  was  the  deep  of  the  night,  and  as  near  quiet 
as  the  Highway  ever  knew ;  with  no  more  than  a 
cry  here  or  there,  a  distant  fiddle,  and  the  faint  hum 
[77] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
of  the  wind  in  the  rigging  of  ships.  Off  in  Blue 
Gate  the  woman  sat  on  the  black  stair,  with  her  face 
in  her  hands,  waiting  for  company  before  return- 
ing to  the  room  where  she  had  fallen  over  sometliing 
in  the  dark. 


[78] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Ci)apter  ^ix 


STEPHEN'S    TALE 

Continued 


H IGH  under  the  tiles  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  I 
had  at  first  a  night  of  disturbed  sleep.  I  was  in 
my  own  familiar  cot,  which  had  been  brought  dur- 
ing the  evening,  on  a  truck.  But  things  were 
strange,  and,  in  particular,  my  grandfather,  who 
slept  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  snored  so 
amazingly,  and  with  a  sound  so  unlike  anything 
I  had  ever  heard  before,  that  I  feared  he  must  be 
choking  to  death,  and  climbed  out  of  bed,  once,  to 
see.  There  were  noises  from  without  too,  sometimes  ' 
of  discordant  singing,  sometimes  of  quarrels ;  and 
once,  from  a  distance,  a  succession  of  dreadful 
screams.  Then  the  old  house  made  curious  sounds 
of  its  own ;  twice  I  was  convinced  of  stealthy  steps 
on  the  stair,  and  all  night  the  very  walls  creaked 
aloud.  So  for  long,  sleepy  as  I  was,  I  dozed  and 
started  and  rolled  and  lay  awake,  wondering  about 
the  little  ship  in  the  bar-parlour,  and  Mr.  Cripps, 
and  the  pale  man,  and  the  watch  with  the  M  on  it. 
Also  I  considered  again  the  matter  of  my  prayers, 
which  I  had  already  discussed  with  Grandfather 
[811 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

Nat,  to  liis  obvious  perplexity,  by  candle-light.  For 
I  was  urgent  to  know  if  I  must  now  leave  my  mother 
out,  and  if  I  might  not  put  my  little  dead  brother 
in ;  being  very  anxious  to  include  them  both.  My 
grandfather's  first  opinion  was,  that  it  was  not  the 
usual  thing;  which  opinion  he  expressed  with  hesi- 
tation, and  a  curious  look  of  the  eyes  that  I  won- 
dered at.  But  I  argued  that  God  could  bless  them 
just  as  well  in  heaven,  as  here  ;  and  Grandfather 
Nat  admitted  that  no  doubt  there  was  something  in 
that.  Whereupon  I  desired  to  know  if  they  would 
hear  if  I  said  my  prayers  that  I  was  quite  safe  with 
'  him,  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall ;  or  if  I  should  rather 
ask  God  to  tell  them.  And  at  that  my  grandfather 
stood  up  and  turned  away,  with  a  rub  and  a  pat 
on  my  head,  toward  his  own  bed ;  telling  me  to  say 
whatever  I  pleased,  and  not  to  forget  Grandfather 
Nat. 

So  that  now,  having  said  what  I  pleased,  and 
having  well  remembered  Grandfather  Nat,  and 
slept  and  woke  and  dozed  and  woke  again,  I  took 
solace  from  his  authority  and  whispered  many 
things  to  my  little  dead  brother,  whom  I  could 
never  play  with :  of  the  little  ship  in  the  glass  case, 
[82] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
and  the  pictures,  and  of  how  I  was  going  to  the 
London  Dock  to-morrow ;  and  so  at  last  fell  asleep 
soundly  till  morning. 

Grandfather  Nat  was  astir  early,  and  soon  I  was 
looking  from  the  window  by  his  bed  at  the  ships 
that  lay  so  thick  in  the  Pool,  tier  on  tier.  Below 
me  I  could  see  the  water  that  washed  between  the 
slimy  piles  on  which  the  house  rested,  and  to  the 
left  were  the  narrow  stairs  that  terminated  the  pas- 
sage at  the  side.  Several  boats  were  moored  about 
these  stairs,  and  a  waterman  was  already  looking 
out  for  a  fare.  Out  in  the  Pool  certain  other  boats 
caught  the  eye  as  they  dodged  about  among  the 
colliers,  because  each  carried  a  bright  fire  amid- 
ships, in  a  brazier,  besides  a  man,  two  small  bar- 
rels of  beer,  and  a  very  large  handbell.  The  men 
were  purlmen.  Grandfather  Nat  told  me,  selling 
liquor — hot  beer  chiefly,  in  the  cold  mornings — 
to  the  men  on  the  colliers  or  on  any  other  craft 
thereabout.  It  struck  me  that  the  one  thing  lack- 
ing for  perfect  bliss  in  most  rowing  boats  was  just 
such  a  brazier  of  cosy  fire  as  the  purl-boat  carried ; 
so  that  after  very  little  consideration  T  resolved 
that  when  I  grew  up  I  would  not  be  a  sailor,  nor 
[  83  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      W  A  E  L 

an   engine-driver,  nor  any   one  of  a  dozen  other 
things  I  had  thought  of,  but  a  purhnan. 

The  staircase  would  have  landed  one  direct  into 
the  bar-parlour  but  for  an  enclosing  door,  which 
strangers  commonly  mistook  for  that  of  a  cupboard. 
A  step  as  light  as  mine  was  possibly  a  rarity  on  this 
staircase ;  for,  coming  down  before  my  grandfather, 
I  startled  a  lady  in  the  bar-parlour  who  had  been 
doing  something  with  a  bottle  which  involved  the 
removal  of  the  cork ;  which  cork  she  snatched  hastily 
from  a  shelf  and  replaced,  with  no  very  favourable 
regard  of  myself ;  and  straightway  dropped  on  her 
knees  and  went  to  work  with  a  brush  and  a  dust- 
pan. She  was  scarce  an  attractive  woman,  I 
thought,  being  rusty  and  bony,  slack-faced  and 
very  red-nosed.  She  swept  the  carpet  and  dusted 
the  shelves  with  an  air  of  angry  contempt  for  every- 
thing she  touched,  and  I  got  into  the  bar  out  of 
her  way  as  soon  as  I  could.  The  potman  was  fling- 
ing sawdust  about  the  floor,  and  there,  in  the  same 
corner,  sat  the  same  pale,  ragged  man  that  was 
there  last  night,  with  the  same  full  glass  of  liquor — 
or  one  like  it — by  his  side :  like  a  trade  fixture  that 
had  been  there  all  night. 

[84] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

When  Grandfather  Nat  appeared,  I  learned  the 
slack-faced  woman's  name.  "  This  here's  my  little 
gran'son,  INIrs.  Grimes,"  he  said,  "  as  is  goin'  to  live 
here  a  bit,  'cordin'  as  I  mentioned  yesterday." 

"Hindeed?"  said  Mrs.  Grimes,  with  a  glance 
that  made  me  feel  more  contemptible  than  the 
humblest  article  she  had  dusted  that  morning. 
"  Hindeed  ?  Then  it'll  be  more  work  more  pay, 
Cap'en  Kemp." 

"  Very  well,  mum,"  my  grandfather  replied. 
"  If  you  reckon  it  out  more  work " 

"  Ho!  "  interjected  Mrs.  Grimes,  who  could  fill  a 
misplaced  aspirate  with  subtle  offence ;  "  reckon  or 
not,  I  s'pose  there's  another  Iped  to  be  made.'*  An' 
buttons  to  be  sewed .''  An'  plates  for  to  be  washed  ^ 
An'  dirt  an'  litter  for  to  be  cleared  up  everywhere.'' 
To  say  nothink  o'  crumbs — which  the  biscuit- 
crumbs  in  the  bar-parlour  this  mornin'  was  thick 
an'  shameful !  "     • 

/  had  had  biscuits,  and  I  felt  a  reprobate.  "  Very 
well,  mum,"  Grandfather  Nat  said,  peaceably; 
"  we'll  make  out  extry  damages,  mum.  A  few 
days'll  give  us  an  idea.  Shall  we  leave  it  a  week 
an'  see  how  things  go.''  " 

[85] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      W  A  E  L, 

"  Ham  I  to  consider  that  a  week's  notice,  Cap'en 
Kemp  ?  "  Mrs.  Grimes  demanded,  with  a  distinct 
rise  of  voice.    "  Ham  I  or  ham  I  not.-^  " 

"  Notice !  "  My  grandfather  was  puzzled,  and 
began  to  look  a  trifle  angry.  "  Why  damme,  who 
said  notice  .P     What " 

"  Because  notice  is  as  easy  give  as  took,  Cap'en 
Kemp,  as  I'd  'ave  you  remember.  An'  slave  I  may 
be  though  better  brought  up  than  slave-drivers  any 
day,  but  swore  at  vulgar  I  won't  be,  nor  trampled 
like  dirt  an'  litter  beneath  the  feet,  an'  will  not  en- 
dure it  neither !  "  And  with  a  great  toss  of  the 
head  Mrs.  Grimes  flounced  through  the  staircase 
door,  and  sniff'ed  and  bridled  her  way  to  the  upper 
rooms. 

Her  exit  relieved  my  mind ;  first  because  I  had 
a  wretched  consciousness  that  I  was  causing  all  the 
trouble,  and  a  dire  fear  that  Grandfather  Nat 
might  dislike  me  for  it;  and  second,  because  when 
he  looked  angry  I  had  a  fearful  foreboding  vision 
of  Mrs.  Grimes  being  presently  whirled  round  by 
the  ear  and  flung  into  the  street,  as  Jim  Crute 
had  been.  But  it  was  not  long  ere  I  learned  that 
Mrs.  Grimes  was  one  of  those  persons  who  grumble 
f  86  1 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
and  clamour  and  bully  at  everj^thing  and  every- 
body on  principle,  finding  that,  with  a  concession 
here  and  another  there,  it  pays  very  well  on  the 
whole ;  and  so  nag  along  very  comfortably  through 
life.  As  for  herself,  as  I  had  seen,  Mrs.  Grimes 
did  not  lack  the  cunning  to  carry  away  any  fit  of 
virtuous  indignation  that  seemed  like  to  push  her 
employer  out  of  his  patience. 

My  grandfather  looked  at  the  bottle  that  IMrs. 
Grimes  had  recorked. 

"  That  rum  shrub,"  he  said,  "  ain't  properly 
mixed.  It  works  in  the  bottle  when  it's  left  stand- 
ing, an'  mounts  to  the  cork.  I  notice  it  almost 
every  morning." 

The  day  was  bright,  and  I  resigned  myself  with 
some  impatience  to  wait  for  an  hour  or  two  till  we 
could  set  out  for  the  docks.  It  was  a  matter  of 
business,  my  grandfather  explained,  that  we  must 
not  leave  the  bar  till  a  fixed  hour — ten  o'clock ;  and 
soon  I  began  to  make  a  dim  guess  at  the  nature  of 
the  business,  though  I  guessed  in  all  innocence,  and 
suspected  not  at  all. 

Contrary  to  my  evening  observation,  at  this  earl}' 
[87] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
hour  the  larger  bar  was  mostly  empty,  while  the 
obscure  compartment  at  the  side  was  in  far  greater 
use  than  it  had  been  last  night.  Four  or  five  visit- 
ors must  have  come  there,  one  after  another;  per- 
haps half  a  dozen.  And  they  all  had  things  to  sell. 
Two  had  watches — one  of  them  was  a  woman ;  one 
had  a  locket  and  a  boatswain's  silver  call ;  and  I 
think  another  had  some  silver  spoons.  Grandfather 
Nat  brought  each  article  into  the  bar-parlour,  to 
examine,  and  then  returned  it  to  its  owner;  which 
behaviour  seemed  to  surprise  none  of  them  as  it  had 
surprised  the  man  last  night ;  so  that  doubtless  he 
was  a  stranger.  To  those  with  watches  my  grand- 
father said  nothing  but  "  Yes,  that  seems  all  right," 
or  "  Yes,  it's  a  good  enough  watch,  no  doubt." 
But  to  the  man  with  the  locket  and  the  silver  call 
he  said,  "  Well,  if  ever  you  want  to  sell  'em  you 
might  get  eight  bob  ;  no  more  "  ;  and  much  the  same 
to  him  with  the  spoons,  except  that  he  thought  the 
spoons  might  fetch  fifteen  shillings. 

Each  of  the  visitors  went  out  with  no  more  ado ; 
and  as  each  went  out,  the  pale  man  in  the  larger  bar 
rose,  put  his  drink  safely  on  the  counter,  just  be- 
yond the  partition,  and  went  out  too;  and  presently 
[88] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
he  came  back,  with  no  more  than  a  glance  at  Grand- 
father Nat,  took  his  drink,  and  sat  down  again. 

At  ten  o'clock  my  grandfather  looked  out  of  the 
bar  and  said  to  the  pale  man :  "  All  right — drink 
up." 

Whereupon  the  pale  man — who  would  have  been 
paler  if  his  face  had  been  washed — swallowed  his 
drink  at  last,  flat  as  it  must  have  been,  and  went 
out;  and  Grandfather  Nat  went  out  also,  by  the 
door  into  the  passage.  He  was  gone  scarce  two 
minutes,  and  when  he  returned  he  unlocked  a  drawer 
below  the  shelf  on  which  the  little  ship  stood,  and 
took  from  it  the  cash-box  I  had  seen  last  night. 
His  back  was  turned  toward  me,  and  himself  was  in- 
terposed between  my  eyes  and  the  box,  which  he 
rested  on  the  shelf;  but  I  heard  a  jingling  that  sug- 
gested spoons. 

So  I  said,  "  Did  the  man  go  to  buy  the  spoons 
for  you,  Gran'fa'  Nat?  " 

My  grandfather  looked  round  sharply,  with 
something  as  near  a  frown  as  he  ever  directed  on 
me.  Then  he  locked  the  box  away  hastily,  with  a 
gruff  laugh.  "  You  won't  starve,  Stevy,"  he  said, 
"  as  long  as  wits  finds  victuals.  But  see  here,"  he 
[89] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
went  on,  becoming  grave  as  he  sat  and  drew  me  to 
his  knee ;  "  see  here,  Stevy.     What  you  see  here's 
my  business,  private  business ;  understand  ?     You 
ain't  a  tell-tale,  are  you?    Not  a  sneak?  " 

I  repudiated  the  suggestion  with  pain  and  scorn ; 
for  I  was  at  least  old  enough  a  boy  to  see  in  sneak- 
ery  the  blackest  of  crimes. 

"  No,  no,  that  you  ain't,  I  know,"  Grandfather 
Nat  went  on,  with  a  pinch  of  my  chin,  though  he 
still  regarded  me  earnestly.  "  A  plucked  'un's 
never  a  sneak.  But  there's  one  thing  for  you  to  re- 
member, Stevy,  afore  all  your  readin'  an'  writin' 
an'  lessons  an'  what  not.  You  must  never  tell  of 
anything  you  see  here,  not  to  a  soul — that  is,  not 
about  me  buyin'  things.  I'm  very  careful,  but 
things  don't  always  go  right,  an'  I  might  get  in 
trouble.  I'm  a  straight  man,  an'  I  pay  for  all  I 
have  in  any  line  o'  trade ;  I  never  stole  nor  cheated 
not  so  much  as  a  farden  all  my  life,  nor  ever  bought 
anything  as  I  knew  was  stole.     See?  " 

I  nodded  gravely.     I  was  trying  hard  to  under- 
stand the  reason  for  all  this  seriousness  and  secrecy, 
but  at  any  rate  I  was  resolved  to  be  no  tale-bearer; 
especially  against  Grandfather  Nat. 
[90] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  Why,"  he  went  on,  justifying  himself,  I  fancy, 
more  for  his  own  satisfaction  than  for  my  informa- 
tion; "why,  even  when  it's  only  just  suspicious  I 
won't  buy — except  o'  course  through  another  party. 
That's  how  I  guard  myself,  Stevy,  an'  every  man 
has  a  right  to  buy  a  thing  reasonable  an'  sell  at  a 
profit  if  he  can;  that's  on'y  plain  trade.  An'  yet 
nobody  can't  say  truthful  as  he  ever  sold  me  any- 
thing over  that  there  counter,  or  anywhere  else, 
barrin'  what  I  have  reg'lar  of  the  brewer  an'  what 
not.  I  may  look  at  a  thing  or  pass  an  opinion,  but 
what's  that?  Nothin'  at  all.  But  w^e've  got  to 
keep  our  mouths  shut,  Stevy,  for  fear  o'  danger; 
see.'*  You  wouldn't  like  poor  ol'  Gran' father  Nat 
to  be  put  in  gaol,  would  ye?  " 

The  prospect  was  terrible,  and  I  put  my  hands 
about  my  grandfather's  neck  and  vowed  I  would 
never  whisper  a  word. 

"  That's  right,  Stevy,"  the  old  man  answered, 
"  I  know  you  won't  if  you  don't  forget  yourself — 
so  don't  do  that.  Don't  take  no  notice,  not  even 
to  me." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  back  door,  which 
opened,  and  disclosed  one  of  the  purlmen ;  who  had 
[91] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
left  his  boat  in  sight  at  the  stairs,  and  wanted  a 
quart  of  gin  in  the  large  tin  can  he  brought  with 
him.  He  was  a  short,  red-faced,  tough-looking 
fellow,  and  he  needed  the  gin,  as  I  soon  learned,  to 
mix  with  his  hot  beer  to  make  the  purl.  He  had  a 
short  conversation  with  my  grandfather  when  the 
gin  was  brought,  of  which  I  heard  no  more  than 
the  words  "  high  water  at  twelve."  But  as  he  went 
down  the  passage  he  turned  and  said :  "  You  got 
the  news,  Cap'en,  o'  course?  " 

"  What?     Viney  and  Marr?  " 

The  man  nodded,  with  a  click  and  a  twitch  of  the 
mouth.  Then  he  snapped  his  fingers,  and  jerked 
them  expressively  upward.  After  which  he  ejacu- 
lated the  single  word  "  Marr  "  and  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder.  By  which  I  understood  him  to 
repeat,  with  no  waste  of  language,  the  story  that 
it  was  all  up  with  the  firm,  and  the  junior  partner 
had  bolted, 

"  That,"  said  Grandfather  Nat,  when  the  man 
was  gone — "  that's  Bill  Stagg.  An'  he's  the  on'y 
purlman  as  don't  come  ashore  to  sleep.  Sleeps  in 
his  boat,  winter  an'  summer,  does  Bill  Stagg. 
How'd  you  like  that,  Stevy  ?  " 
[92] 


Stephen's    tal:^!!* 

I  thought  I  should  catch  cold,  and  perhaps 
tumble  overboard,  if  I  had  a  bad  dream;  and  I 
said  so. 

"  Ah  well.  Bill  Stagg  don't  mind.  He  was  A.  B. 
aboard  o'  me  when  Mr.  Viney  was  my  mate  many 
years  ago,  an'  a  good  A.  B.  too.  Bill  Stagg,  he 
makes  fast  somewhere  quiet  at  night,  an'  curls  up 
snug  as  a  weevil.  Mostly  under  the  piles  o'  this 
here  house,  when  the  wind  ain't  east.  Saves  him 
rent,  you  see ;  so  he  does  pretty  well." 

And  with  that  my  grandfather  put  on  his  coat 
and  reached  the  pilot-cap  that  was  his  every-day 
wear. 


[93] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Ci)apter  ^e\)eii 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


f^' E  walked  first  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where 
opened  a  wide  picture  of  the  Thames  and  all  its 
traffic,  and  where  the  walls  were  plastered  with  a 
dozen  little  bills,  each  headed  "  Found  Drowned," 
and  each  with  the  tale  of  some  nameless  corpse 
under  the  heading. 

"  That's  my  boat,  Stevy,"  said  my  grandfather, 
pointing  to  a  little  dinghy  with  a  pair  of  sculls  in 
her ;  "  our  boat,  if  you  like,  seeing  as  we're  pard- 
ners.  Now  you  shall  do  which  you  like :  walk  along 
to  the  dock,  where  the  sugar  is,  or  come  out  in  our 
boat." 

It  was  a  hard  choice  to  make.  The  glory  and  de- 
light of  the  part  ownership  of  a  real  boat  dazzled 
me  like  another  sun  in  the  sky ;  but  I  had  promised 
myself  the  docks  and  the  sugar  for  such  a  long  time. 
So  we  compromised ;  the  docks  to-day  and  the  boat 
to-morrow. 

Out  in  the  street  everybody  seemed  to  know 
Grandfather  Nat.  Those  who  spoke  with  him  com- 
monly called  him  Captain  Kemp,  except  a  few  old 
[97] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
acquaintances  to  whom  he  was  Captain  Nat.  Loaf- 
ers and  crimps   gazed  after  him  and  nodded  to- 
gether; and  small  ship-chandlers  gave  him  good 
morning  from  their  shop-doors. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  at  a 
turn,  there  was  a  swing  bridge  and  a  lock,  such  as 
we  had  by  the  old  house  in  Blackwall.  At  the  mo- 
ment we  came  in  hail  the  men  were  at  the  winch  and 
the  bridge  began  to  part  in  the  middle ;  for  a  ship 
was  about  to  change  berth  to  the  inner  dock. 
"  Come  Stevy,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  we'll  take 
the  lock  'fore  they  open  that.  Not  afraid  if  I'm 
with  you,  are  you.''  " 

No,  I  was  not  afraid  with  Grandfather  Nat,  and 
would  not  even  be  carried.  Though  the  top  of  the 
lock  was  not  two  feet  wide,  and  was  knotted,  broken 
and  treacherous  in  surface  and  wholly  unguarded 
on  one  side,  where  one  looked  plump  down  into  the 
foul  dock-water ;  and  though  on  the  other  side  there 
was  but  a  slack  chain  strung  through  loose  iron 
stanchions  that  staggered  in  their  sockets.  Grand- 
father Nat  gripped  me  by  the  collar  and  walked 
me  before  him ;  but  relief  tempered  my  triumph 
when  I  was  safe  across;  my  feet  never  seemed  to 
[98] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
have  twisted  and  slipped  and  stumbled  so  much  be- 
fore in  so  short  a  distance — perhaps  because  in  that 
same  distance  I  had  never  before  recollected  so  many 
tales  of  men  drowned  in  the  docks  by  falling  off 
just  such  locks,  in  fogs,  or  by  accidental  slips. 

A  little  farther  along,  and  we  came  upon  RatclifF 
Highway.  I  saw  the  street  then  for  the  first  time, 
and  in  truth  it  was  very  wonderful.  I  think  there 
could  never  have  been  another  street  in  tliis  country 
at  once  so  foul  and  so  picturesque  as  Ratcliff  High- 
way at  the  time  I  speak  of.  Much  that  I  saw  I 
could  not  understand,  child  as  I  was ;  and  by  so 
much  the  more  was  I  pleased  with  it  all,  when  per- 
haps I  should  have  been  shocked.  From  end  to 
end  of  the  Highway  and  beyond,  and  through  all 
its  tributaries  and  purlieus  everything  and  every- 
body was  for,  by,  and  of,  the  sailor  ashore;  every 
house  and  shop  was  devoted  to  his  convenience  and 
inconvenience ;  in  the  Highway  it  seemed  to  me  that 
every  other  house  was  a  tavern,  and  in  several  places 
two  stood  together.  There  were  shops  full  of  slops, 
sou'westers,  pilot-coats,  sea-boots,  tin  pannikins, 
and  canvas  kit-bags  like  giants'  bolsters ;  and  rows 
of  big  knives  and  daggers,  often  engraved  with  sug- 
[99] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
gestive  maxims:  a  flash  of  memory  recalls  the  fa- 
vourite :  "  Never  draw  me  without  cause,  never 
sheathe  me  without  honour."  I  have  since  seen  the 
words  "  cause  "  and  "  honour  "  put  to  uses  less  re- 
spectable. 

The  pawn-shops  had  nothing  in  them  that  had 
not  come  straight  from  a  ship — sextants  and  boat- 
swain's pipes  being  the  choice  of  the  stock.  And 
pawn-shops,  slop-shops,  tobacco-shops — every  shop 
almost — had  somewhere  in  its  window  a  selection  of 
those  curiosities  that  sailors  make  abroad  or  bring 
home ;  little  ship-models  mysteriously  erected  inside 
bottles,  shells,  albatross  heads,  saw-fish  snouts,  and 
bottles  full  of  sand  of  diff'erent  colours,  ingeniously 
packed  so  as  to  present  a  figure  or  a  picture  when 
viewed  from  without. 

Men  of  a  dozen  nations  were  coming  or  going  in 
every  score  of  yards.  The  best  dressed,  and  the 
worst,  were  the  negroes ;  for  the  black  cook  who 
was  flush  went  in  for  adornments  that  no  other 
sailor-man  would  have  dreamed  of ;  a  white  shirt,  a 
flaming  tie,  a  black  coat  with  satin  facings — even  a 
white  waistcoat  and  a  top  hat.  While  the  cleaned- 
out  and  shipless  nigger  was  a  sad  spectacle  indeed. 
[100] 


Stephen's    tale 

Then  there  were  Spaniards,  swart,  long-haired, 
bloodshot-looking  fellows  whose  entire  shore  outfit 
consisted  commonly  of  a  red  shirt,  blue  trousers, 
ankle  jacks  with  the  bare  brown  feet  visible  over 
them,  a  belt,  a  big  knife,  and  a  pair  of  large  gold 
earrings.  Big,  yellow -haired,  blue-eyed  Swedes, 
who  were  full  pink  with  sea  and  sun,  and  not  brown 
or  mahogany-coloured,  like  the  rest ;  slight,  wicked- 
looking  Malays ;  lean,  spitting  Yankees,  with 
stripes,  and  felt  hats,  and  sing-song  oaths;  some- 
times a  Chinaman,  petticoatcd,  dignified,  jeered  at; 
a  Lascar,  a  Greek,  a  Russian ;  and  everywhere  the 
English  Jack,  rolling  of  gait — sometimes  from 
habit  alone,  sometimes  for  mixed  reasons — hard, 
red-necked,  waistcoatless,  with  his  knife  at  his  belt, 
like  the  rest :  but  more  commonly  a  clasp-knife  than 
one  in  a  sheath.  To'  me  all  these  strangely  bedight 
men  were  matter  of  delight  and  wonder;  and  I 
guessed  my  hardest  whence  each  had  come  last, 
what  he  had  brought  in  his  ship,  and  what  strange 
and  desperate  adventures  he  had  encountered  on  the 
way.  And  whenever  I  saw  bare,  hairy  skifi,  whether 
an  arm,  or  the  chest  under  an  open  shirt,  there  were 
blue  devices  of  ships,  of  flags,  of  women,  of  letters 
[101] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

and  names.  Grandfather  Nat  was  tattooed  like 
that,  as  I  had  discovered  in  the  morning,  when  he 
washed.  He  had  been  a  fool  to  have  it  done,  he  said, 
as  he  flung  the  soapy  water  out  of  window  into  the 
river,  and  he  warned  me  that  I  must  be  careful 
never  to  make  such  a  mistake  myself;  which  made 
me  sorry,  because  it  seemed  so  gallant  an  embellish- 
ment. But  my  grandfather  explained  that  you 
could  be  identified  by  tattoo-marks,  at  any  length 
of  time,  which  might  cause  trouble.  I  remembered 
that  my  own  father  was  tattooed  with  an  anchor 
and  my  mother's  name ;  and  I  hoped  he  would  never 
be  identified,  if  it  were  as  bad  as  that. 

In  the  street  oyster-stalls  stood,  and  baked- 
potato  cans ;  one  or  two  sailors  were  buying,  and 
one  or  two  fiddlers,  but  mostl}'^  the  customers  were 
the  gaudy  women,  who  seemed  to  make  a  late  break- 
fast in  this  way.  Some  had  not  stayed  to  perform 
a  greater  toilet  than  to  fling  clothes  on  themselves 
unhooked  and  awry,  and  to  make  a  straggling  knot 
of  their  hair ;  but  the  most  were  brilliant  enough  in 
violet  or  scarlet  or  blue,  with  hair  oiled  and  crimped 
and  hung  in  thick  nets,  and  with  bright  handker- 
chiefs over  their  shoulders — belcher  yellows  and 
[102] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
kingsmen  and  blue  billies.  And  presently  we  came 
on  one  who  was  dancing  with  a  sailor  on  the  pave- 
ment, to  the  music  of  one  of  the  many  fiddlers  who 
picked  up  a  living  hereabout ;  and  she  wore  the  reg- 
ular dancing  rig  of  the  Highway — short  skirts  and 
high  red  morocco  boots  with  brass  heels.  She  cov- 
ered the  buckle  and  grape-vined  with  great  pre- 
cision, too,  a  contrast  with  her  partner,  whose  horn- 
pipe was  unsteady  and  vague  in  the  figures,  for  in- 
deed he  seemed  to  have  "  begun  early  " — perhaps 
had  not  left  off  all  night.  Two  more  pairs  of  these 
red  morocco  boots  we  saw  at  a  place  next  a  public 
house,  where  a  shop  front  had  been  cleared  out  to 
make  a  dancing-room,  with  a  sort  of  buttery-hatch 
communicating  with  the  tavern ;  and  where  a  flushed 
sailor  now  stood  with  a  pot  in  each  hand,  roaring 
for  a  fiddler. 

But  if  the  life  and  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
Highway  in  some  sort  disguised  its  squalor,  they 
made  the  more  hideously  apparent  the  abomination 
of  the  by-streets:  which  opened,  filthy  and  menac- 
ing, at  every  fifty  yards,  as  we  went.  The  light 
seemed  greyer,  the  very  air  thicker  and  fouler  in 
these  passages ;  though  indeed  they  formed  the  res- 
[103] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

idential  part  whereof  the  Highway  was  the  market- 
place. The  cliildrcn  who  ran  and  tumbled  in  these 
places,  the  boy  of  nine  equally  with  the  infant 
crawling  from  doorstep  to  gutter,  were  half  naked, 
shoeless,  and  disguised  in  crusted  foulness;  so  that 
I  remember  them  with  a  certain  sickening,  even  in 
these  latter  days,  when  I  see  no  such  pitiably 
neglected  little  wretches,  though  I  know  the  dark 
parts  of  London  well  enough. 

At  the  mouth  of  one  of  these  narrow  streets,  al- 
most at  the  beginning  of  the  Highway,  Grandfather 
Nat  stopped  and  pointed. 

It  was  a  forbidding  lane,  with  forbidding  men 
and  women  hanging  about  the  entrance;  and  far 
up  toward  the  end  there  appeared  to  be  a  crowd  and 
a  fight ;  in  the  midst  whereof  a  half-naked  man 
seemed  to  be  rushing  from  side  to  side  of  the 
street. 

"  That's  the  Blue  Gate,"  said  my  grandfather, 
and  resumed  his  walk.  "  It's  dangerous,"  he  went 
on,  "  the  worst  place  hereabout — perhaps  any- 
where. Wuss'n  Tiger  Bay,  a  mile.  You  must 
never  go  near  Blue  Gate.  People  get  murdered 
there,  Stevy — murdered — many's  a  man;  sailor- 
[  104  ] 


Stephen's    tale 

men,  mostly ;  an'  nobody  never  knows.  Pitch  them 
in  the  Dock  sometimes,  sometimes  in  the  river,  so's 
they're  washed  away.  I've  known  'em  taken  to 
Hole-in-the-Wall  Stairs  at  night." 

I  gripped  my  grandfather's  hand  tighter,  and 
asked,  in  all  innocence,  if  we  should  see  any,  if  we 
kept  a  watch  out  of  window  that  night.  He 
laughed,  thought  the  chance  scarce  worth  a  sleep- 
less night,  and  went  on  to  tell  me  of  something 
else.  But  I  overheard  later  in  a  bar  conversation 
a  ghastly  tale  of  years  before ;  of  a  murdered 
man's  body  that  had  been  dragged  dripping 
through  the  streets  at  night  by  two  men  who  sup- 
ported its  arms,  staggering  and  shouting  and  sing- 
ing, as  though  the  three  were  merely  drunk ;  and 
how  it  was  dropped  in  panic  ere  it  was  brought 
to  the  waterside,  because  of  a  collision  with  three 
live  sailors  who  really  were  drunk. 

One  or  two  crimps'  carts  came  through  from 
the  docks  as  we  walked,  drawn  by  sorry  animals, 
and  piled  high  with  shouting  sailors  and  their 
belongings — chief  among  these  the  giant  bolster- 
bags.  The  victims  went  to  their  fate  gloriously 
enough,  hailing  and  chaffing  the  populace  on  the 
f  105  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

way,  and  singing,  each  man  as  he  Hst.  Also  we 
saw  a  shop  with  a  window  full  of  parrots  and  mon- 
keys ;  and  a  very  sick  kangaroo  in  a  wooden  cage 
being  carried  in  from  a  van. 

And  so  we  came  to  the  London  Dock  at  last. 
And  there,  in  the  sugar-sheds,  stood  more  sugar 
than  ever  I  had  dreamed  of  in  my  wildest  visions 
— thousands  of  barrels,  mountains  of  sacks.  And 
so  many  of  the  bags  were  ratbitten,  or  had  got 
a  slit  by  accidentally  running  up  against  a  jack- 
knife;  and  so  many  of  the  barrels  were  defective, 
or  had  stove  themselves  by  perverse  complications 
with  a  crowbar ;  that  the  heavy,  brown,  moist  stuff 
was  lying  in  heaps  and  lumps  everywhere ;  and  I 
supposed  that  it  must  be  called  "  foot-sugar  "  be- 
cause you  couldn't  help  treading  on  it. 

It  was  while  I  was  absorbed  in  this  delectable 
spectacle,  that  I  heard  a  strained  little  voice  behind 
me,  and  turned  to  behold  Mr.  Cripps  greeting  my 
grandfather. 

"  Good-mornin',   Cap'en   Kemp,   sir,"   said   Mr. 

Cripps.    "  I  been  a-lookin'  at  the  noo  Blue  Grosser 

• — the  Emily  Riggs.     She  ought  to  be  done,   ye 

know,  an'  a  han'some  picter  she'd  make;  but  the 

[106  J 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
skipper  seems  busy.     Why,  an'  there's  young  mas- 
ter Stephen,  I  do  declare;  'ow  are  ye,  sir?  " 

As  he  bent  and  the  nase  neai'cd,  I  was  seized 
with  a  horrid  fear  that  he  was  going  to  kiss  me. 
But  he  only  shook  hands,  after  all — though  it  was 
not  at  all  a  clean  hand  that  he  gave, 

"  Why,  Cap'en  Kemp,"  he  went  on,  "  this  is 
what  I  say  a  phenomenal  coincidence;  rather 
unique,  in  fact.  Why,  you'll  'ardly  beheve  as  I 
was  a  thinkin'  o'  you  not  'arf  an  hour  ago,  scarce- 
ly!  Now  you  wouldn't  'a'  thought  that,  would 
ye.?  " 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  Grandfather  Nat's  eye. 
"  All  depends,"  he  said. 

"  Comin'  along  from  the  mortuary,  I  see  some- 
think " 

"  Ah,  something  in  the  mortuary,  no  doubt," 
my  grandfather  interrupted,  quizzically.  "  Well, 
what  was  in  the  mortuary.?  I  bet  there  was  a 
corpse  in  the  mortuary." 

"  Quite  correct,  Cap'en  Kemp,  so  there  was ; 
three  of  'em,  an'  a  very  sad  sight;  decimated, 
Cap'en    Kemp,   by    the    watery    element.      But   it 

wasn't  them  I  was " 

[107] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  What !  It  wasn't  a  corpse  as  reminded  you  of 
me?  That's  rum.  Then  I  expect  somebody  told 
you  some  more  about  Viney  and  Marr.  Come, 
what's  the  latest  about  Viney  an'  Marr?  Tell  us 
about  that." 

Grandfather  Nat  was  humorously  bent  on  driv- 
ing Mr.  Cripps  from  his  mark,  and  Mr.  Cripps 
defen'ed.  "  Well,  it's  certainly  a  topic,"  he  said, 
"  a  universal  topic.  Crooks  the  ship-chandler's  done 
for,  they  say — unsolvent.  The  Minerva  s  reported 
off  Prawle  Point  in  to-day's  list,  an'  they  say  as 
she'll  be  sold  up  as  soon  as  she's  moored.  But  there 
— she's  hypotenused,  Cap'en  Kemp ;  pawned,  as  you 
might  say ;  up  the  flue.  It's  a  matter  o'  gen'ral 
information  that  she's  pawned  up  to  'er  r'yals — up 
to  'er  main  r'yal,  sir.  Which  reminds  me,  speakin' 
o'  r'yals,  there's  a  timber-shop  just  along  by  the 
mortuary " 

"  Ah,  no  doubt,"  Grandfather  Nat  interrupted, 
"  they  must  put  'em  somewhere.  Any  news  o'  the 
Juno?  " 

"  No  sir,  she  ain't  reported ;  not  doo  Barbadoes 
yet,  or  mail  not  in,  any'ow.  They'll  sell  'er  too, 
but  the  creditors  won't  get  none  of  It.  She's  hypot- 
f  108  1 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
enuscd  as  deep  as  the  other — up  to  her  r'yals;  an' 
there's  nothin'  else  to  sell.  So  it's  the  gen'ral 
opinion  there  won't  be  much  to  divide,  MaiT  'avin' 
absconded  with  the  proceeds.  An'  as  regards  what 
I  was  agoin'  to " 

"  Yes,  you  was  goin'  to  tell  me  some  more  about 
Marr,  I  expect,"  my  grandfather  persisted. 
"  Heard  where  he's  gone.''  " 

Mr.  Cripps  shook  his  head.  "  They  don't  seem 
likely  to  ketch  'im,  Cap'en  Nat.  Some  says  'e's 
absconded  out  o'  the  country,  others  says  'e's  'idin' 
in  it.  Nobody  knows  'im  much,  consequence  o' 
Viney  doin'  all  the  outdoor  business — I  on'y  see 
'im  once  myself.  Viney,  'e  thinks  'e's  gone  abroad, 
they  say ;  an'  'e  swears  Marr's  the  party  as  is  caused 
the  unsolvency,  'avin'  bin  a-doin'  of  'im  all  along; 
'im  bein'  in  charge  o'  the  books.  An'  it's  a  fact, 
Cap'en  Kemp,  as  you  never  know  what  them  chaps 
may  get  up  to  with  the  proceeds  as  'as  charge  o' 
books.  The  paper's  full  of  'em  every  week — always 
abscondin'  with  somebody's  proceeds !  An'  by  the 
way,  speakin'  o'  proceeds " 

This  time  Captain   Nat  made  no  interruption, 
but  listened  with  an  amused  resignation, 
f  109  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL. 

"  Speakin'  o'  proceeds,"  said  Mr.  Cripps,  "  it 
was  bein'  temp'ry  out  o'  proceeds  as  made  me  think 
o'  you  as  I  come  along  from  the  mortuary.  For 
I  see  as  'andsome  a  bit  o'  panel  for  to  paint  a  sign 
on  as  ever  I  come  across.      It  was " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Enough  to  stimilate  you  to 
paint  it  fine,  only  to  look  at  it,  wasn't  it.''  " 

"  Well,  yes,  Cap'en  Kemp,  so  it  was." 

"  Not  dear,  neither.?  " 

"  No — not  to  say  dear,  seein'  'ow  prices  is  up. 
If  I'd  'ad " 

"  Well,  well,  p'rhaps  prices  '11  be  down  a  bit 
soon,"  said  Grandfather  Nat,  grinning  and  pull- 
ing out  a  sixpence.  "  I  ain't  good  for  no  more 
than  that  now,  anyhow ! "  And  having  passed 
over  the  coin  he  took  my  hand  and  turned  away, 
laughing  and  shaking  his  head. 

Seeing  that  my  grandfather  wanted  his  sign,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  losing  an  opportunity, 
and  I  said  so. 

"What!"  he  said,  "let  him  buy  the  board.? 
Why  he's  had  half  a  dozen  boards  for  that  sign 
a'ready ! " 

[110] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
"  Half  a  dozen?  "  I  said.     "  Six  boards?    What 

did  he  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Ate  'em  !  "  said  Grandfather  Nat,  and  laughed 

the  louder  when  I  stared. 


[Ill] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cijapter  Cigfjt 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 

Continued 


1  FOUND  it  quite  true  that  one  might  eat  the 
loose  sugar  wherever  he  judged  it  clean  enough — 
as  most  of  it  was.  And  nothing  but  Grandfather 
Nat's  restraining  hand  postponed  my  first  bilious 
attack. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  made  acquaintance  with  the 
Highway,  and  with  the  London  Docks,  in  their 
more  picturesque  days,  and  saw  and  delighted  in 
a  thousand  things  more  than  I  can  write.  Port 
was  drunk  then,  and  hundreds  of  great  pipes  lay 
in  rows  on  a  wide  quay,  where  men  walked  with 
wooden  clubs,  whacking  each  pipe  till  the  "  shive  " 
or  wooden  bung  sprang  into  the  air,  to  be  caught 
with  a  dexterity  that  pleased  me  like  a  conjuring 
trick.  And  many  a  thirsty  dock-labourer,  watch- 
ing his  opportunity,  would  cut  a  strip  of  bread 
from  his  humble  dinner  as  he  strolled  near  a  pipe, 
and,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  indefinite 
empyrean,  absently  dip  his  sippet  into  the  shive- 
hole  as  he  passed ;  recovering  it  in  a  state  so  wet 
[115] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

and  discoloured  that  its  instant  consumption  was 
inii^erative.' 

And  so  at  last  we  came  away  from  the  docks  by 
the  thoroughfare  then  called  Tangle- foot  Lane; 
not  that  that  name,  or  anything  like  it,  was  painted 
at  the  corner;  but  because  it  was  the  road  com- 
monly taken  by  visitors  departing  from  the  wine 
vaults  after  bringing  tasting  orders. 

As  we  passed  Blue  Gate  on  our  way  home,  I  saw, 
among  those  standing  at  the  corner,  a  coarse-faced, 
untidy  woman,  talking  to  a  big,  bony-looking  man 
with  a  face  so  thin  and  mean  that  it  seemed  mis- 
placed on  such  shoulders.  The  woman  was  so  much 
like  a  score  of  others  then  in  sight,  that  I  should 
scarce  have  noted  her,  were  it  not  that  she  and 
the  man  stopped  their  talk  as  we  passed,  with  a 
quick  look,  first  at  my  grandfather,  and  then  one 
at  the  other ;  and  then  the  man  turned  his  back  and 
walked  away.  Presently  the  woman  came  after  us, 
walking  quickly,  glancing  doubtfully  at  Grand- 
father Nat  as  she  passed;  and  at  last,  after  twice 
looking  back,  she  turned  and  waited  for  us  to  come 
up. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Cap'en  Kemp,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
[116] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
but  a  very  thick  voice,  "  but  might  I  speak  to  j'^ou 
a  moment,  sir?  " 

My  grandfather  looked  at  her  sharply.  "  Well,'* 
he  said,  "  what  is  it?  " 

"  In  regards  to  a  man  as  sold  you  a  watch  las' 
night " 

"  No,"  Grandfather  Nat  interrupted  with  angry 
decision,  "  he  didn't." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  jesso  sir — 'course  not;  which 
I  mean  to  say  'e  sold  it  to  a  man  near  to  3'^our  'ouse. 
Is  it  brought  true  as  that  party — not  meanin'  you, 
sir,  'course  not,  but  the  party  in  the  street  near 
your  'ouse — is  it  brought  true  as  that  party'll  buy 
somethink  more — somethink  as  I  needn't  tell  now, 
sir,  p'rhaps,  but  somethink  spoke  of  between  that 
party  an'  the  other  party — I  mean  the  party  as 
sold  it,  an'  don't  mean  you,  sir,  'course  not?  " 

It  was  plain  that  the  woman,  who  had  begun  in 
trepidation,  was  confused  and  abashed  the  more  by 
the  hard  frown  with  which  Captain  Nat  regarded 
her.  The  frown  persisted  for  some  moments ;  and 
then  my  grandfather  said :  "  Don't  know  what  you 
mean.  If  somebody  bought  anything  of  a  friend 
o'  yours,  an'  your  friend  wants  to  sell  him  some- 
[117] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 
thing  else,  I  suppose  he  can  take  it  to  him,  can't 
he?     And  if  it's  any  value,  there's  no  reason  he 
shouldn't  buy  it,  so  far  as  I  know."     And  Grand- 
father Nat  strode  on. 

The  woman  murmured  some  sort  of  acknowledg- 
ment, and  fell  back,  and  in  a  moment  I  had  for- 
gotten her;  though  I  remembered  her  afterward, 
for  good  reason  enough. 

In  fact,  it  was  no  later  than  that  evening.  I 
was  sitting  in  the  bar-parlour  with  Grandfather 
Nat,  who  had  left  the  bar  to  the  care  of  the  pot- 
man. My  grandfather  was  smoking  his  pipe,  wliile 
I  spelled  and  sought  down  the  narrow  columns  of 
Lloyd's  List  for  news  of  my  father's  ship.  It  was 
my  grandfather's  way  to  excuse  himself  from  read- 
ing, when  he  could,  on  the  pica  of  unsuitable  eyes; 
though  I  suspect  that  apart  from  his  sight,  he 
found  reading  a  greater  trouble  than  he  was  pleased 
to  own. 

"  There's  nothing  here  about  the  Juno,  Grand- 
father Nat,"  I  said.     "  Nothing  anywhere." 

"  Ah !  "  said  my  grandfather,  "  La  Guaira  was 
the  last  port,  an'  we  must  keep  eyes  on  the  list  for 
Barbadoes.      Maybe    the    mail's   late."      Most    of 
[  1181 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
Lloyd's    messages    came    by    mail    at    that    time. 
"  Let's  see,"  he  went  on ;  "  Belize,  La  Guaira,  Bar- 
badoes  " ;    and    straightway   began    to    figure    out 
distances  and  chances  of  wind. 

Grandfather  Nat  had  been  considering  whether 
or  not  we  should  write  to  my  father  to  tell  him  that 
my  mother  was  dead,  and  he  judged  that  there 
was  little  chance  of  any  letter  reaching  the  Juno 
on  her  homeward  passage. 

"  Belize,  La  Guaira,  Barbadoes,"  said  Grand- 
father Nat,  musingly.  "  It's  the  rough  season 
thereabout,  an'  it's  odds  she  may  be  blown  out  of 
her  course.    But  the  mail " 

He  stopped  and  turned  his  head.  There  was  a 
sudden  stamp  of  feet  outside  the  door  behind  us, 
a  low  and  quick  voice,  a  heavy  thud  against  the 
door,  and  then  a  cry — a  dreadful  cry,  that  began 
like  a  stifled  scream  and  ended  with  a  gurgle. 

Grandfather  Nat  reached  the  door  at  a  bound, 
and  as  he  flung  it  wide  a  man  came  with  it  and 
sank  heavily  at  his  feet,  head  and  one  shoulder 
over  the  threshold,  and  an  arm  flung  out  stiffly, 
so  that  the  old  man  stumbled  across  it  as  he 
dashed  at  a  dark  shadow  without. 
[119] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

I  was  hard  at  my  grandfather's  heels,  and  in  a 
flash  of  time  I  saw  that  another  man  was  rising 
from  over  the  one  on  the  doorsill.  But  for  the 
stumble  Grandfather  Nat  would  have  had  him.  In 
that  moment's  check  the  fellow  spun  round  and 
dashed  off,  striking  one  of  the  great  posts  with  his 
shoulder,  and  nearly  going  down  with  the  shock. 

All  was  dark  without,  and  what  I  saw  was  merely 
confused  by  the  light  from  the  bar-parlour.  My 
grandfather  raised  a  shout  and  rushed  in  the  wake 
of  the  fugitive,  toward  the  stairs,  and  I,  too  star- 
tled and  too  excited  to  be  frightened  yet,  skipped 
over  the  stiff  arm  to  follow  him.  At  the  first  step 
I  trod  on  some  object  wliich  I  took  to  be  my  grand- 
father's tobacco-pouch,  snatched  it  up,  and  stuffed 
it  in  my  jacket  pocket  as  I  ran.  Several  men  from 
the  bar  were  running  in  the  passage,  and  down 
the  stairs  I  could  hear  Captain  Nat  hallooing 
across  the  river. 

"  Ahoy !  "  came  a  voice  in  reply.  "  What's 
up .''  "  And  I  could  see  the  fire  of  a  purl-boat 
coming  in. 

"  Stop  him,  Bill ! "  my  grandfather  shouted. 
"  Stop  him !     Stabbed  a  man !     He's  got  my  boat, 

r  120  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
and  there's  no  sculls  in  this  damned  thing!     Gone 
round  them  barges !  " 

And  now  I  could  distinguish  my  grandfather  in 
a  boat,  paddling  desperately  with  a  stretcher,  his 
face  and  his  shirt-sleeves  touched  with  the  light 
from  the  purlman's  fire. 

The  purl-boat  swung  round  and  shot  off,  and 
presently  other  boats  came  pulling  by,  with  shouts 
and  questions.  Then  I  saw  Grandfather  Nat,  a 
black  form  merely,  climbing  on  a  barge  and  run- 
ning and  skipping  along  the  tier,  from  one  barge 
to  another,  calling  and  directing,  till  I  could  see 
him  no  more.  There  were  many  men  on  the  stairs 
by  this  time,  and  others  came  running  and  jostling; 
so  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  bar-parlour  door. 

It  was  no  easy  thing  to  get  in  here,  for  a  crowd 
was  gathering.  But  a  man  from  the  bar  who  rec- 
ognised me  made  a  way,  and  as  soon  as  I  had 
pushed  through  the  crowd  of  men's  legs  I  saw  that 
the  injured  man  was  lying  on  the  floor,  tended  by 
the  potman ;  while  Mr.  Cripps,  his  face  pallid 
under  the  dirt,  and  his  nose  a  deadly  lavender, 
stood  by,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  hands 
dangling  aimlessly. 

[121  ] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

The  stabbed  man  lay  with  his  head  on  a  rolled- 
up  coat  of  my  grandfather's,  and  he  was  bad  for  a 
child  to  look  at.  His  face  had  gone  tallowy;  his 
eyes,  which  turned  (and  frightened  me)  as  I  came 
in,  were  now  directed  steadily  upward ;  he  breathed 
low  and  quick,  and  though  Joe  the  potman  pressed 
cloths  to  the  wound  in  his  chest,  there  was  blood 
about  his  lips  and  chin,  and  blood  bubbled  dread- 
fully in  his  mouth.  But  what  startled  me  most, 
and  what  fixed  my  regard  on  his  face  despite  my 
tremors,  so  that  I  could  scarce  take  my  eyes  from 
it,  was  the  fact  that,  paleness  and  blood  and  drawn 
cheeks  notwithstanding,  I  saw  in  him  the  ugly, 
broken-nosed  fellow  who  had  been  in  the  private 
compartment  last  night,  with  a  watch  to  sell;  the 
watch,  with  an  initial  on  the  back,  that  now  lay 
in  Grandfather  Nat's  cash-box. 


[  122  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

C!)apter  jEtne 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


J^OMEBODY  was  gone  for  a  doctor,  it  was  said, 
but  a  doctor  was  not  always  easy  to  find  in  Wap- 
ping.  Mrs.  Grimes,  who  was  at  some  late  work 
upstairs,  was  not  disturbed  at  first  by  the  noise, 
since  excitement  was  not  uncommon  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. But  now  she  came  to  the  stairfoot 
door,  and  peeped  and  hurried  back.  For  myself, 
I  squeezed  into  a  far  comer  and  stared,  a  little 
sick;  for  there  was  a  deal  of  blood,  and  Joe  the 
potman  was  all  dabbled,  like  a  slaughterman. 

My  grandfather  returned  almost  on  the  doctor's 
heels,  and  with  my  grandfather  were  some  river 
police,  in  glazed  hats  and  pilot  coats.  The  doc- 
tor puffed  and  shook  his  head,  called  for  cold 
water,  and  cloths,  and  turpentine,  and  milk.  Cold 
water  and  cloths  were  ready  enough,  and  turpen- 
tine was  easy  to  get,  but  ere  the  milk  came  it  was 
useless.  The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  puffed 
more  than  ever,  wiped  his  hands  and  pulled  his 
cuffs  down  gingerly.  I  could  not  see  the  man  on 
the  floor,  now,  for  the  doctor  was  in  the  way ;  but 
[125] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
I  heard  him,  just  before  tlie  doctor  stood  up.    The 
noise  sent  my  neck  cold  at  the  back ;  though  in- 
deed it  was  scarce  more  than  the  noise  made  in 
emptying  a  large  bottle  by  up-ending  it. 

The  doctor  stood  up  and  shook  his  head. 
"  Gone,"  he  said.  "  And  I  couldn't  have  done 
more  than  keep  him  alive  a  few  minutes,  at  best. 
It  was  the  lung,  and  bad- — two  places.  Have  they 
got  the  man.''  " 

"  No,"  said  Grandfather  Nat,  "  nor  ain't  very 
likely,  I'd  say.  Never  saw  him  again,  once  he  got 
behind  a  tier  o'  lighters.  Waterside  chap,  cer- 
tain ;  knows  the  river  well  enough,  an'  these  stairs. 
I  couldn't  ha'  got  that  boat  o'  mine  off  quicker, 
not  myself." 

"  Ah,"  said  one  of  the  river  policemen,  "  he's 
a  waterside  chap,  that's  plain  enough.  Any  other 
'ud  a-bolted  up '  the  street.  Never  said  nothing, 
did  he — this  one?  "  He  was  bending  over  the  dead 
man ;  while  the  others  cleared  the  people  back  from 
the  door,  and  squeezed  Mr.  Cripps  out  among  them. 

"  No,  not  a  word,"  answered  Joe  the  potman. 
"  Couldn't.     Tried  to  nod  once  when  I  spoke  to 
'im,  but  it  seemed  to  make  'im  bleed  faster." 
[  126] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  Know  him,  Cap'en  Nat?  "  asked  the  sergeant. 

*'  No,"  answered  my  grandfather,  "  I  don't  know 
him.  Might  ha'  seen  him  hanging  about  p'rhaps. 
But  then  I  see  a  lot  doin'  that." 

I  wondered  if  Grandfather  Nat  had  already  for- 
gotten about  the  silver  watch  with  the  M  on  it, 
or  if  he  had  merely  failed  to  recognise  the  man. 
But  I  remembered  what  he  had  said  in  the  morn- 
ing, after  he  had  bought  the  spoons,  and  I  re- 
flected that  I  had  best  hold  my  tongue. 

And  now  voices  without  made  it  known  that  the 
shore  police  were  here,  with  a  stretcher;  and  pres- 
ently, with  a  crowding  and  squeezing  in  the  little 
bar-parlour  that  drove  me  deeper  into  my  corner 
and  farther  under  the  shelf,  the  uncomely  figure 
was  got  from  the  floor  to  the  stretcher,  and  so  out 
of  the  house. 

It  was  plain  that  my  grandfather  Was  held  in 
good  regard  by  the  police;  and  I  think  that  his 
hint  that  a  drop  of  brandy  was  at  the  service  of 
anybody  who  felt  the  job  unpleasant  might  have 
been  acted  on,  if  there  had  not  been  quite  as  many 
present  at  once.  When  at  last  they  were  gone, 
and  the  room  clear,  he  kicked  into  a  heap  the  strip 
[127] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

of  carpet  that  the  dead  man  had  lain  on ;  and  as 
he  did  it,  he  perceived  me  in  my  corner. 

"  What — you  here  all  the  time,  Stevy  ?  "  he 
said.  "  I  thought  you'd  gone  upstairs.  Here — 
it  ain't  right  for  boys  in  general,  but  you've  got 
a  turn ;  drink  up  tliis." 

I  believe  I  must  have  been  pale,  and  indeed  I  felt 
a  little  sick  now  that  the  excitement  was  over.  The 
thing  had  been  very  near,  and  the  blood  tainted  the 
very  air.  So  that  I  gulped  the  weak  brandy  and 
water  without  much  difficulty,  and  felt  better.  Out 
in  the  bar  Mr.  Cripps's  thin  voice  was  raised  in 
thrilling  description. 

Feeling  better,  as  I  have  said,  and  no  longer  faced 
with  the  melancholy  alternatives  of  crying  or  being 
ill,  I  bethought  me  of  my  grandfather's  tobacco- 
pouch.  "  You  dropped  your  pouch,  Gran'father 
Nat,"  I  said,  "  and  I  picked  it  up  when  I  ran  out." 

And  with  that  I  pulled  out  of  my  jacket  pocket 
— not  the  pouch  at  all ;  but  a  stout  buckled  pocket- 
book  of  about  the  same  size. 

"  That  ain't  a  pouch,  Stevy,"  said  Grandfather 
Nat ;  "  an'  mine's  here  in  my  pocket.     Show  me." 

He  opened  the  flap,  and  stood  for  a  moment  star- 
[128] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
ing.  Then  he  looked  up  hastily,  turned  his  back  to 
the  bar,  and  sat  down.  "  Whew !  Stevy  !  "  he  said, 
with  amazement  in  his  eyes  and  the  pocket-book 
open  in  his  hand.  "  You're  in  luck ;  luck,  my  boy. 
See!" 

Once  more  he  glanced  quickly  over  his  shoulder, 
toward  the  bar ;  and  then  took  in  his  fingers  a  folded 
bunch  of  paper,  and  opened  it.  "  Notes !  "  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  drawing  me  to  his  side.  "  Bank  of 
England  notes,  every  one  of  'em  !  Fifties,  an'  twen- 
ties, an'  tens,  an'  fives !    Where  was  it  ?  " 

I  told  him  how  I  had  run  out  at  his  heels,  had 
trodden  on  the  tiling  in  the  dark,  and  had  slipped  it 
into  my  pocket,  supposing  it  to  be  his  old  leather 
tobacco-pouch,  from  which  he  had  but  just  refilled 
his  pipe ;  and  how  I  had  forgotten  about  it,  in  my 
excitement,  till  the  people  were  gone,  and  the 
brandy  had  quelled  my  faintness. 

"  Well,  well,"  commented  Grandfather  Nat,  "  it's 
a  wonderful  bit  o'  luck,  anyhow.  This  is  what 
the  chap  was  pulling  awa  v  from  him  when  I  opened 
the  door,  you  can  lay  to  that ;  an'  he  lost  it  when  he 
hit  the  post,  I'll  wager ;  unless  the  other  pitched  it 
away.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
[  129] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
What's    that? "     He    turned    his    head    quickly. 
"  That  stairfoot  door  ain't  latched  again,  Stevy. 
Made  me  j  ump :  fancied  it  was  the  other." 

There  was  nothing  else  in  the  pocket-book,  it 
would  seem,  except  an  old  photograph.  It  was  a 
faded,  yellowish  thing,  and  it  represented  a  ratlier 
stout  woman,  seated,  with  a  boy  of  about  fourteen 
at  her  side ;  both  very  respectably  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  twenty  years  earlier.  Grandfather  Nat 
put  it  back,  and  slipped  the  pocket-book  into  the 
same  cash-box  that  had  held  the  watch  with  the  M 
engraved  on  its  back. 

The  stairfoot  door  clicked  again,  and  my  grand- 
father sent  me  to  shut  it.  As  I  did  so  I  almost  fan- 
cied I  could  hear  soft  footsteps  ascending.  But 
then  I  concluded  I  was  mistaken ;  for  in  a  few  mo- 
ments Mrs.  Grimes  was  plainly  heard  coming  down 
stairs,  with  an  uncommonly  full  tread;  and  pres- 
ently she  presented  herself. 

"  Good  law,  Cap'en  Kemp,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Grimes,  with  a  hand  clutching  at  her  chest,  and 
her  breath  a  tumultuous  sigh ;  "  Good  law !  I  am 
that  bad !  What  with  extry  work,  an'  keepin'  on 
late,  an'  murders  under  my  very  nose,  I  cannot 
[130] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
a-bear  it — no !  "    And  she  sank  into  a  chair  by  the 
stairfoot  door,  letting  go  her  brush  and  dust-pan 
with  a  clatter. 

Grandfather  Nat  turned  to  get  the  brandy-bottle 
again.  Mrs.  Grimes's  head  drooped  faintly,  and 
her  eyelids  nearly  closed.  Nevertheless  I  observed 
that  the  eyes  under  the  lids  were  very  sharp  in- 
deed, following  my  grandfather's  back,  and  tra- 
versing the  shelf  where  he  had  left  the  photograph ; 
yet  when  he  brought  the  brandy,  he  had  to  rouse  her 
by  a  shake. 


[131] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cijapter  Cm 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 

Continued 


I  WENT  to  bed  early  that  night — as  soon  as  Mrs. 
Grimes  was  gone,  in  fact.  My  grandfather  had  re- 
solved that  such  a  late  upsitting  as  last  night's 
must  be  no  more  than  an  indulgence  once  in  a  way. 
He  came  up  with  me,  bringing  the  cash-box  to  put 
away  in  the  little  wall-cupboard  against  his  bed- 
head where  it  always  lay,  at  night,  with  a  pistol 
by  its  side.  Grandfather  Nat  peeped  to  see  the 
pocket-book  safe  once  more,  and  chuckled  as  he 
locked  it  away.  This  done,  he  sat  by  my  side,  and 
talked  till  I  began  to  fall  asleep. 

The  talk  was  of  the  pocket-book,  and  what  should 
be  done  with  the  money.  Eight  hundred  pounds 
was  the  sum,  and  two  five-pound  notes  over,  and  I 
wondered  why  a  man  with  so  much  money  should 
come,  the  evening  before,  to  sell  his  watch. 

"  Looks  as  though  the  money  wasn't  his,  don't 
it  ?  "  commented  Grandfather  Nat.  "  Though  any- 
how it's  no  good  to  him  now.  You  found  it,  an'  it's 
yours,  Stevy." 

I  remembered  certain  lessons  of  my  mother's  as 
[135] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

to  one's  proper  behaviour  toward  lost  property,  and 
I  mentioned  them.  But  Grandfather  Nat  clearly 
resolved  me  that  this  was  no  case  in  point.  "  It 
can't  be  his,  because  he's  dead,"  Captain  Nat 
argued ;  "  an'  if  it's  the  other  chap's — well,  let  him 
come  an'  ask  for  it.  That's  fair  enough,  you  know, 
Stevy.  An'  if  he  don't  come — it  ain't  likely  he  will, 
is  it .'' — then  it's  yours ;  and  I'll  keep  it  to  help  start 
you  in  life  when  you  grow  up.  I  won't  pay  it  into 
the  bank- — not  for  a  bit,  anyhow.  There's  numbers 
on  bank  notes ;  an'  they  lead  to  trouble,  often.  But 
they're  as  good  one  time  as  another,  an'  easy  sent 
abroad  later  on,  or  what  not.  So  there  you  are, 
my  boy !  Eight  hundred  odd  to  start  you  like  a 
gentleman,  with  as  much  more  as  Grandfather  Nat 
can  put  to  it.     Eh  ?  " 

He  kissed  me  and  rubbed  his  hands  in  my  curls, 
and  I  took  the  occasion  to  communicate  my  decision 
as  to  being  a  purlman.  Grandfather  Nat  laughed, 
and  patted  my  head  down  on  the  pillow ;  and  for  a 
little  I  remembered  no  more. 

I  awoke  in  an  agony  of  nightmare.  The  dead 
man,  with  blood  streaming  from  mouth  and  eyes, 
was  dragging  my  grandfather  down  into  the  river, 
[136] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
and  my  mother  with  my  httle  dead  brother  in  her 
arms  called  me  to  throw  out  the  pocket-book,  and 
save  him ;  and  throw  I  could  not,  for  the  thing 
seemed  glued  to  my  fingers.  So  I  awoke  with  a 
choke  and  a  cry,  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

All  was  quiet  about  me,  and  below  were  the  com- 
mon evening  noises  of  the  tavern  ;  laughs,  argumen- 
tation and  the  gurgle  of  drawn  beer ;  though  there 
was  less  noise  now  than  when  I  had  come  up,  and 
I  judged  it  not  far  from  closing  time.  Out  in  the 
street  a  woman  was  singing  a  ballad ;  and  I  got  out 
of  bed  and  went  to  the  front  room  window  to  see 
and  to  hear;  for  indeed  I  was  out  of  sorts  and 
nervous,  and  wished  to  look  at  people. 

At  the  corner  of  the  passage  there  was  a  small 
group  who  pointed  and  talked  together — plainly 
discussing  the  murder;  and  as  one  or  two  drifted 
away,  so  one  or  two  more  came  up  to  join  those 
remaining.  No  doubt  the  singing  woman  had  taken 
this  pitch  as  one  suitable  to  her  ware — for  she  sang 
and  fluttered  at  length  in  her  hand  one  of  the  versi- 
fied last  dying  confessions  that  even  so  late  as  this 
were  hawked  about  Ratcliff  and  Wapping.  What 
murderer's  "  confession  "  the  woman  was  singing 
I  137  I 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
I  have  clean  forgotten ;  but  they  were  all  the  same, 
all  set  to  a  doleful  tune  which,  with  modifications, 
still  does  duty,  I  believe,  as  an  evening  hymn ;  and 
the  burden  ran  thus,  for  every  murderer  and  any 
murder  :— 

Take  warning  hy  my  dreadful  fate 

The  truth  I  cant  deny  ; 
This  dreadful  crime  that  I  are  done, 

I  are  condemned  to  die. 

The  singular  grammar  of  the  last  two  lines  I 
never  quite  understood,  not  having  noticed  its  like 
elsewhere;  but  I  put  it  down  as  a  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  the  speech  of  murderers. 

I  waited  till  the  woman  had  taken  her  ballads 
away,  and  I  had  grown  uncommonly  cold  in  the 
legs,  and  then  crept  back  to  bed.  But  now  I  had 
fully  wakened  myself,  and  sleep  was  impossible. 
Presently  I  got  up  again,  and  looked  out  over  the 
river.  Very  black  and  mysterious  it  lay,  the  blacker, 
it  seemed,  for  the  thousand  lights  that  spotted  it, 
craft  and  shore.  No  purlmen's  fires  were  to  be  seen, 
for  work  on  the  colliers  was  done  long  ago,  but  once 
a  shout  and  now  a  hail  came  over  the  water,  faint 
or  loud,  far  or  near;  and  up  the  wooden  wall  I 
f  138  1 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
leaned  on  came  the  stead}'  sound  of  the  lapping 
against  the  piles  below.  I  wondered  where  Grand- 
father Nat's  boat — our  boat — lay  now  ;  if  the  mur- 
derer were  still  rowing  in  it,  and  would  row  and 
row  right  away  to  sea,  where  my  father  was,  in  his 
ship :  or  if  he  would  be  caught,  and  make  a  dying 
confession  with  all  the  "  haves  "  and  "  ams  "  re- 
placed by  "  ares  " ;  or  if,  indeed,  he  had  already 
met  providential  retribution  by  drowning.  In 
which  case  I  doubted  for  the  safety  of  the  boat, 
and  hoped  Grandfather  Nat  would  buy  another. 
And  my  legs  growing  cold  again,  I  retreated  once 
more. 

I  heard  the  customers  being  turned  into  the 
street,  and  the  shutters  going  up ;  and  then  I  got 
under  the  bed-clothes,  for  I  recalled  the  nightmare, 
and  it  was  not  pleasant.  It  grew  rather  worse,  in- 
deed, for  my  waking  fancy  enlarged  and  em- 
bellished it,  and  I  longed  to  hear  the  tread  of 
Grandfather  Nat  ascending  the  stair.  But  he  was 
late  to-night.  I  heard  Joe  the  potman,  who  slept 
off  the  premises,  shut  the  door  and  go  off  up  the 
street.  P'or  a  few  minutes  Grandfather  Nat  was 
moving  about  the  bar  and  the  bar-parlour;  and 
[139] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
then   there   was   silence,   save    for   the   noises — the 
clicks  and  the  creaks — that  the  old  house  made  of 
itself. 

I  waited  and  waited,  sometimes  with  my  head 
out  of  the  clothes,  sometimes  with  no  more  than  a 
contrived  hole  next  my  ear,  listening.  Till  at  last 
I  could  wait  no  longer,  for  the  liousc  seemed  alive 
with  stealthy  movement,  and  I  shook  witli  the  in- 
definite terror  that  comes,  some  Jilght  or  ;inother, 
to  the  most  unimaginative  child.  I  tlicught,  at 
first,  of  calling  to  my  grandfather,  but  that  would 
seem  babyish ;  so  I  said  my  prayers  over  again, 
held  my  breath,  and  faced  the  terrors  of  the  stair- 
case. The  boards  sang  and  creaked  under  my  bare 
feet,  and  the  black  about  me  was  full  of  dim  col- 
oured faces.  But  I  pushed  the  door  and  drew 
breath  in  the  honest  lamp-light  of  the  bar-parlour 
at  last. 

Nobody  was  there,  and  nobody  was  in  the  bar. 
Could  he  have  gone  out  ?  Was  I  alone  in  the  house, 
there,  where  the  blood  was  still  on  the  carpet .?  But 
there  was  a  slight  noise  from  behind  the  stairs,  and 
I  turned  to  look  farther. 

Behind  the  bar-parlour  and  the  staircase  were  two 
[  140  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
rooms,  that  projected  immediately  over  the  river, 
with  their  frames  resting  on  the  piles.  One  was 
sometimes  used  as  a  parlour  for  the  reception  of 
mates  and  skippers,  though  such  customers  were 
rare ;  the  other  held  cases,  bottles  and  barrels.  To 
this  latter  I  turned,  and  mounting  the  three  steps 
behind  the  staircase,  pushed  open  the  door ;  and 
was  mightil}'  astonished  at  what  I  saw. 

There  was  my  grandfather,  kneeling,  and  there 
was  one-half  of  Bill  Stagg  the  purlman,  standing 
waist  deep  in  the  floor.  For  a  moment  It  was  be- 
yond me  to  guess  what  he  was  standing  on,  seeing 
that  there  was  nothing  below  but  water ;  but  pres- 
ently I  reasoned  that  the  tide  was  high,  and  he  must 
be  standing  in  his  boat.  He  was  handing  my  grand- 
father some  small  packages,  and  he  saw  me  at  once 
and  pointed.  Grandfather  Nat  turned  sharply,  and 
stared,  and  for  a  moment  I  feared  he  was  angry. 
Then  he  grinned,  shook  his  finger  at  me,  and 
brought  it  back  to  his  lips  with  a  tap. 

"  All  right — my   pardner,"   he   whispered,    and 
Bill  Stagg  grinned  too.     The  business  was  short 
enoiigh,  and  in  a  few  seconds  Bill  Stagg,  with  an- 
other grin  at  me,  and  something  like  a  wink,  ducked 
[  141  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
below.  My  grandfather,  with  noiseless  care,  put 
back  in  place  a  trap-door — not  a  square,  noticeable 
thing,  but  a  clump  of  boards  of  divers  lengths, 
that  fell  into  place  with  as  innocent  an  aspect  as 
the  rest  of  the  floor.  This  done,  he  rolled  a  barrel 
over  the  place,  and  dropped  the  contents  of  the 
packages  into  a  row  of  buckets  that  stood  near. 

"  What's  that,  Gran'father  Nat.?  "  I  ventured  to 
ask,  when  all  was  safely  accomplished. 

My  grandfather  grinned  once  more,  and  shook 
his  head.  "  Go  on,"  he  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  in  the 
bar-parlour.  May  as  well  now  as  let  ye  find  out." 
He  blew  out  the  light  of  his  candle  and  followed 
me. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  wrapping  my  cold  feet  in  my 
nightgown  as  I  sat  on  his  knee.  "  What  brought 
ye  down,  Stevy.^*    Did  we  make  a  noise?  " 

I  shook  my  head.     "  I^ — I  felt  lonely,"  I  said. 

"  Lonel}' .''  Well,  never  mind.  An'  so  ye  came  to 
look  for  me,  eh?  Well,  now,  this  is  another  one  o' 
the  things  as  you  mustn't  talk  about,  Stevy — a  lit- 
tle secret  between  ourselves,  bein'  pardners." 

"  The  stuff  in  the  pail,  Gran'fa'  Nat?  " 

"  The  stuff"  in  the  pail,  an'  the  hole  in  the  floor, 
f  142  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
You're  sure  you  won't  get  talkin',  an'  get  your 
poor  old  gran'father  in  trouble?  " 

Yes,  I  was  quite  sure ;  though  I  could  not  see  as 
yet  what  there  was  to  cause  trouble. 

"  The  stuff  Bill  Stagg  brought,  Stevy,  is  'bacca. 
'Bacca  smashed  down  so  hard  that  a  pound  ain't 
bigger  than  that  match-box.  An'  I  pitch  it  in  the 
water  to  swell  it  out  again;  see?  " 

I  still  failed  to  understand  the  method  of  its  ar- 
rival. "  Did  Bill  Stagg  steal  it,  gran'father?  "  I 
asked. 

Grandfather  Nat  laughed.  "  No,  my  boy,"  he 
said ;  "  he  bought  it,  an'  I  buy  it.  It  comes  off  the 
Dutch  boats.  But  it  comes  a  deal  cheaper  takin' 
it  in  that  way  at  night-time.  There's  a  big  place 
I'll  show  you  one  day,  Stevy — big  white  house  just 
this  side  o'  London  Bridge.  There's  a  lot  o'  gen- 
tlemen there  as  wants  to  see  all  the  'bacca  that 
comes  in  from  abroad,  an'  they  take  a  lot  o'  trouble 
over  it,  and  charge  too,  fearful.  So  they're  very 
angry  if  parties — same  as  you  an'  me — takes  any  in 
without  lettin'  'em  know,  an'  payin'  'em  the  money. 
An'  they  can  get  you  locked  up." 

This  seemed  a  very  unjust  world  that  I  had  come 
[  143  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
into,  in  which  Grandfather  Nat  was  in  danger  of 
such  teri'ible  penalties  for  such  innocent  transac- 
tions— buying  a  watch,  or  getting  liis  tobacco 
cheap.  So  I  said :  "  I  think  people  are  very  wicked 
in  this  place." 

"  Ah !  "  said  my  grandfather,  "  I  s'pose  none  of 
us  ain't  over  good.  But  there — I've  told  you  about 
it  now,  an'  that's  better  than  lettin'  you  wonder, 
an'  p'rhaps  go  askin'  other  people  questions.  So 
now  you  know,  Stevy.  We've  got  our  little  secrets 
between  us,  an'  you've  got  to  keep  'em  between  us, 
else — well,  you  know.  Nothing  about  anytliing  I 
buy,  nor  about  what  I  take  in  there," — with  a  jerk 
of  the  thumb — "  nor  about  'bacca  in  buckets  o' 
water." 

"  Nor  about  the  pocket-book.  Gran' fa'  Nat.''  " 

"  Lord  no.  'Specially  not  about  that.  You 
see,  Stevy,  pardners  is  pardners,  an'  they  must 
stick  together,  eh?  We'll  stick  together,  won't 
we.?" 

I  nodded  hard  and  reached  for  my  grandfather's 
neck. 

"  Ah,  that  we  will.     What  others  like  to  think 
they    can;      they    can't    prove    nothing,    nor    it 
[  144  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
wouldn't  be  their  game.  But  we're  pardners,  an' 
I've  told  you  what — well,  what  you  might  ha' 
found  out  in  a  more  awkward  way.  An'  it  ain't 
so  bad  a  thing  to  have  a  pardner  to  talk  to, 
neither.  I  never  had  one  till  now — not  since  your 
gran'mother  died,  that  you  never  saw,  Stevy ;  an' 
that  was  twenty  year  ago.  I  been  alone  most  o' 
my  life — not  even  a  boy,  same  as  it  might  be  you. 
'Cause  why.''  When  your  father  was  your  age, 
an'  older,  I  was  always  at  sea,  an'  never  saw  him, 
scarcely ;    same  as  him  an'  you  now." 

And  indeed  Grandfather  Nat  and  I  knew  each 
other  better  than  my  father  knew  either  of  us.  And 
so  we  sat  for  a  few  minutes  talking  of  ourselves, 
and  once  more  of  the  notes  in  the  pocket-book  up- 
stairs ;  till  the  tramp  of  the  three  policemen  on 
the  beat  stayed  in  the  street  without,  and  we  heard 
one  of  the  three  coming  down  the  passage. 

He  knocked  sharply  at  the  bar-parlour  door,  and 
Grandfather  Nat  put  me  down  and  opened  it. 

"  Good  evenin',  Cap'en  Kemp,"  said  the  police- 
man.   "  We  knew  you  was  up,  seein'  a  bit  o'  light." 
Then  he  leaned  farther  in,  and  in  a  lower  voice, 
said :     "  He  ain't  been  exactly  identified  yet,  but 
r  145  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
it's  thought  some  of  our  chaps  knows  'im.     Know 
if  anything's  been  picked  up  ?  " 

My  heart  gave  a  jump,  as  probably  did  my 
grandfather's.  "  Picked  up? "  he  repeated. 
"Why,  what?     What  d'ye  mean?" 

"  Well,  there  was  nothing  partic'lar  on  the  body, 
an'  our  chaps  didn't  see  the  knife.  We  thought  if 
anybody  about  'ad  picked  up  anything,  knife  or 
what  not,  you  might  'ear.  So  there  ain't  noth- 
ing? " 

"  No,"  Grandfather  Nat  answered  blankly. 
"  I've  seen  no  knife,  nor  heard  of  none." 

"  All  right,  Cap'en  Kemp^ — if  you  do  hear  of 
anything,  give  us  the  tip.     Good  night !  " 

Grandfather  Nat  looked  oddly  at  me,  and  I  at 
him.  I  think  we  had  a  feeling  that  our  partner- 
ship was  sealed.  And  so  with  no  more  words  we 
went  to  bed. 


[  146] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  Cleben 


STEPHENS    TALE 

Continued 


X  HAD  never  seen  either  of  the  partners  In  the 
firm  of  Viney  &  Marr :  as  I  may  have  said  already. 
On  the  day  after  the  man  was  stabbed  at  our  side 
door  I  saw  them  both. 

That  morning  the  tide  was  low,  and  Hole-in-the- 
Wall  Stairs  ended  in  a  causeway  in  the  midst  of  a 
little  flat  of  gravel  and  mud.  So,  since  the  mud 
was  nowhere  dangerous,  and  there  was  no  deep 
water  to  fall  into,  I  was  allowed  to  go  down  the 
steps  alone  and  play  on  the  foreshore  while  Grand- 
father Nat  was  busy  with  his  morning's  aff'airs; 
the  two  or  three  watermen  lying  by  the  causeway 
undertaking  to  keep  an  eye  on  me.  And  there  I 
took  my  pleasure  as  I  would,  now  raking  in  the 
wet  pebbles,  and  heaving  over  big  stones  that 
often  pulled  me  on  to  all-fours,  now  climbing  the 
stairs  to  peep  along  the  alley,  and  once  or  twice 
running  as  far  as  the  bar-parlour  door  to  report 
myself  to  Grandfather  Nat,  and  inform  him  of 
my  discoveries. 

The  little  patch  of  foreshore  soon  rendered  up  all 
[  149  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
its  secrets,  and  its  area  grew  less  by  reason  of  the 
rising  tide ;  so  that  I  tunicd  to  other  matters  of  in- 
terest. Out  in  mid-stream  a  clu;  or  of  lighters  lay 
moored,  waiting  for  the  turn  of  the  tide.  Presently 
a  little  tug  came  puffing  and  fussing  from  some- 
where alongshore,  and  after  much  shoA'ing  and  haul- 
ing and  shouting,  scuffled  off,  trailing  three  of  the 
lighters  behind  it ;  from  which  I  conj  ectured  that 
their  loads  were  needed  in  a  hurry.  But  the  dis- 
turbance among  the  rest  of  the  lighters  was  not 
done  with  when  the  tug  had  cleared  the  three  from 
their  midst ;  for  a  hawser  had  got  foul  of  a  rudder, 
and  two  or  three  men  were  at  work  with  poles 
and  hooks,  recrimination  and  forcible  words,  to 
get  things  clear.  Though  the  thing  seemed  no 
easy  job;  and  it  took  my  attention  for  some 
time. 

But  presently  I  tired  of  it,  and  climbed  the  steps 
to  read  the  bills  describing  the  people  who  had  been 
found  drowned.  There  were  eleven  of  the  bills  alto- 
gether, fresh  and  clean ;  and  fragments  of  innu- 
merable others,  older  and  dirtier,  were  round  about 
them.  Ten  men  and  one  woman  had  been  picked 
up,  it  would  seem,  and  all  within  a  week  or  two,  as 
[150] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
I  learned  when  I  had  spelled  out  the  dates.  I  pored 
at  these  bills  till  I  had  read  them  through,  being 
horribly  fascinated  by  the  personal  marks  and  pe- 
culiarities so  baldly  set  forth ;  the  scars,  the  tattoo 
marks,  the  colour  of  the  dead  eyes ;  the  clothes  and 
boots  and  the  contents  of  the  pockets — though  in- 
deed most  of  the  pockets  would  seem  to  have  been 
empty.  The  woman — they  guessed  her  age  at 
twenty-two — wore  one  earring;  and  I  entangled 
myself  in  conjectures  as  to  what  had  become  of  the 
other. 

I  was  disturbed  by  a  shout  from  the  causeway. 
I  looked  and  saw  Bill  Stagg  in  his  boat.  "  Is  your 
gran'father  there?"  shouted  Bill  Stagg.  "Tell 
him  they've  found  his  boat." 

This  was  joyful  news,  and  I  rushed  to  carry  it. 
"  They've  found  our  boat,  Gran'father  Nat,"  I 
cried.     "  Bill  Stagg  says  so !  " 

Grandfather  Nat  was  busy  in  the  bar,  and  he  re- 
ceived the  information  with  calmness.  "  Ah,"  he 
said,  "  I  knew  it  'ud  turn  up  somewhere.  Bill  Stagg 
there.''  "  And  he  came  out  leisurely  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  P'lice  galley  found  your  boat,  Cap'en,"  Bill 
[151] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
Stagg  reported.   "  You'll  have  to  go  up  to  the  float 
for  it." 

"  Right.     Know  where  it  was  ?  " 

"  Up  agin  Elephant  stairs  "  —  Bill  Stagg 
pointed  across  the  river — "  turned  adrift  and 
jammed  among  the  lighters." 

Grandfather  Nat  nodded  serenely.  Bill  Stagg 
nodded  in  reply,  shoved  off  from  the  causeway  and 
went  about  his  business. 

The  hawser  was  still  foul  among  the  lighters  out 
in  the  stream,  and  a  man  had  pulled  over  in  a  boat 
to  help.  I  had  told  my  grandfather  of  the  diffi- 
culty, and  how  long  it  had  baffled  the  lightermen, 
and  was  asking  the  third  of  a  string  of  questions 
about  it  all,  when  there  was  a  step  behind,  and  a 
voice :  "  Good  mornin',  Cap'en  Nat." 

My  grandfather  turned  quickly.  "  Mr.  Viney !  " 
he  said.     "  Well     .     .      .     Good  mornin'." 

I  tunied  also,  and  I  was  not  prepossessed  by  Mr. 
Viney.  His  face — a  face  no  doubt  originally  pale 
and  pasty,  but  too  long  sun-burned  to  revert  to 
anything  but  yellow  in  these  later  years  of  shore- 
life — his  yellow  face  was  ever  stretched  in  an  un- 
easy grin,  a  grin  that  might  mean  either  propitia- 
[152] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
tion  or  malice,  and  remained  the  same  for  both. 
He  had  the  watery  eyes  and  the  goatee  beard  that 
were  not  uncommon  among  seamen,  and  in  total  I 
thought  he  much  resembled  one  of  those  same  hang- 
dog fellows  that  stood  at  comers  and  leaned  on 
posts  in  this  neighbourhood,  making  a  mysterious 
living  out  of  sailors ;  one  of  them,  that  is  to  say, 
in  a  superior  suit  of  clothes  that  seemed  too  good 
for  him.  I  suppose  he  may  have  been  an  inch  taller 
than  Grandfather  Nat ;  but  in  the  contrast  between 
them  he  seemed  very  small  and  mean. 

He  offered  his  hand  with  a  stealthy  gesture, 
rather  as  though  he  were  trying  to  pick  my  grand- 
father's waistcoat  pocket ;  so  that  the  old  man  stared 
at  the  hand  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  see  what  he 
would  be  at,  before  he  shook  it. 

"  Down  in  the  world  again,  Cap'en  Nat,"  said 
Viney,  with  a  shrug. 

"  Ay,  I  heard,"  answered  Captain  Nat.  "  I'm 
very  sorry ;  but  there — p'rhaps  you'll  be  up  again 
soon.     .     .     . " 

****** 

"  I  come  to  ask  you  about  something,"   Viney 
proceeded,  as  they  walked  away  toward  the  bar- 
[153] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
parlour  door.     "  Something  you'll  tell  me,  bein' 
an  old  shipmate,  if  you  can  find  out,  I'm  sure. 
Can  we  go  into  your  place?     No,  there's  a  woman 
there." 

"  Only  one  as  does  washin'  up  an'  such.  I'll  send 
her  upstairs  if  you  like." 

"  No,  out  here's  best ;  we'll  walk  up  and  down ; 
people  get  hangin'  round  doors  an'  keyholes  in  a 
place  like  that.     Here  we  can  see  who's  near  us." 

"What,  secrets.?" 

"  Ay."  Viney  gave  an  ugly  twist  to  his  grin. 
"  I  know  some  o'  yours — one  big  'un  at  any  rate, 
Cap'en  Nat,  don't  I?  So  I  can  afford  to  let  you 
into  a  little  'un  o'  mine,  seein'  I  can't  help  it.  Now 
I'd  like  to  know  if  you've  seen  anything  of  Marr." 

"  No, — haven't  seen  him  for  months.  Bolted, 
they  tell  me,  an' — well  you  know  better'n  me,  I  ex- 
pect." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Viney  replied  with  emphasis. 
"  I  ought  to  know,  but  I  don't.  See  here  now. 
Less  than  a  week  ago  he  cleared  out,  an'  then  I 
filed  my  petition.  He  might  ha'  been  gone  any- 
where— bolted.  Might  be  abroad,  as  would  seem 
most  likely.  In  plain  fact  he  was  only  coming  down 
[154] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
in  these  parts  to  lie  low.  See?  Round  about  here 
a  man  can  lie  low  an'  snug,  an'  safer  than  abroad, 
if  he  likes.  And  he  had  money  with  him — all  we 
could  get  together.  See.^  "  and  Viney  frowned  and 
winked,  and  glanced  stealthily  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Ah,"  remarked  Captain  Nat,  dryly,  "  I  see. 
An'  the  creditors " 

"  Damn  the  creditors !  See  here,  Cap'en  Nat 
Kemp.     Remember  a  man  called  Dan  Webb.''  " 

Captain  Nat  paled  a  little,  and  tightened  his 
lips. 

"  Remember  a  man  called  Dan  Webb?  "  Viney 
repeated,  stopping  in  his  walk  and  facing  the 
other  with  the  uneasy  grin  unchanged.  "  A  man 
called  Dan  Webb,  aboard  o'  the  Florence  along  o' 
you  an'  me?  'Cause  I  do,  anyhow.  That's  on'y 
my  little  hint — we're  good  friends  altogether,  o' 
course,  Cap'en  Nat ;  but  you  know  what  it  means. 
Well,  Marr  had  money  with  him,  as  I  said.  He 
was  to  come  to  a  quiet  anchorage  hereabout,  got 
up  like  a  seaman,  an'  let  me  know  at  once." 

Captain  Nat,  his  mouth  still  set  tight,  nodded, 
with  a  grunt. 

"  Well,  he  didn't  let  me  know.     I  heard  nothing 
[  155] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
at  all  from  him,  an'  it  struck  me  rather  of  a  heap  to 
think  that  p'rhaps  he'd  put  the  double  on  me,  an' 
cleared  out  in  good  earnest.  But  yesterday  I  got 
news.  A  blind  fiddler  chap  gave  me  some  sort  o' 
news." 

Captain  Nat  remembered  the  meeting  at  the 
street  comer  in  the  evening  after  the  funeral. 
"  Blind  George  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes,  that  was  all  the  name  he  gave  me;  a  regu- 
lar thick  'un,  tliat  blind  chap,  an'  a  flow  o'  lan- 
guage as  would  curl  the  sheathing  off  a  ship's  bot- 
tom. He  came  the  evening  before,  it  seems,  but 
found  the  place  shut  up — servant  gal  took  her 
hook.  Well  now,  he'd  done  all  but  see  Marr  down 
here  at  the  Blue  Gate — he'd  seen  him  as  clear  as  a 
blind  man  could,  he  said,  with  his  ears :  an'  he  came 
to  me  to  give  me  the  tip  an'  earn  anything  I'd  give 
him  for  it.  It  amounted  to  this.  It  was  plain 
enough  IMarr  had  come  along  here  all  right,  an' 
pitched  on  some  sort  o'  quarters ;  but  it  was  clear 
he  wasn't  fit  to  be  trusted  alone  in  such  a  place 
at  all.  For  the  blind  chap  found  him  drunk,  an'  in 
tow  with  as  precious  a  pair  o'  bully-boys  as  Blue 
Gate  could  show.  Not  only  drunk,  neither,  but 
f  156  1 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
drunk  with  a  slack  jaw — drunk  an'  gabbling,  drunk 
an'  talkin'  business — my  business — an'  lottin'  out 
all  there  was  to  let, — this  an'  that  an'  t'other  an' 
Lord  knows  what !  It  was  only  because  of  his 
drunken  jabber  that  the  blind  man  found  out  who 
he  was." 

"  And  this  was  the  day  before  yesterday  ?  "  asked 
Captain  Nat. 

"  Yes." 

Captain  Nat  shook  his  head.  "  If  he  was  like 
that  the  day  before  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  in  tow 
with  such  chaps  as  you  say, — well,  whatever  he  had 
on  him  ain't  on  him  now.  An'  it  'ud  puzzle  a 
cleverer  man  than  me  to  find  it.  You  may  lay  to 
that." 

Viney  swore,  and  stamped  a  foot,  and  swore 
again.  "  But  see,"  he  said,  "  ain't  there  a  chance? 
It  was  in  notes,  all  of  it.  Them  chaps'll  be  afraid 
to  pass  notes.  Couldn't  most  of  it  be  got  back  on 
an  arrangement  to  cash  the  rest.'*  You  can  find 
'em  if  you  try,  with  all  your  chances.  Come — I'll 
pay  fair  for  what  I  get,  to  you  an'  all." 

"  See  how  you've  left  it,"  remarked  Captain  Nat ; 
and  Viney  swore  again.     "  This  was  all  done  the 
[157  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
day  before  yesterday.     Well,  you  don't  hear  of  it 
yourself  till  yesterday,  an'  now  you  don't  come  to 
me  till  to-day." 

Viney  swore  once  more,  and  grinned  twice  as  wide 
in  his  rage.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  was  Blind 
George's  doing.  I  sent  him  back  to  see  what  he 
could  do,  an'  ain't  seen  him  since.  Like  as  not  he's 
standing  in  with  the  others." 

"  Ay,  that's  likely,"  the  old  man  answered,  "  very 
likely.  Blind  George  is  as  tough  a  lot  as  any  in 
Blue  Gate,  for  all  he's  blind.  You'd  never  ha' 
heard  of  it  at  all  if  they'd  ha'  greased  him  a  bit 
at  first.  I  expect  they  shut  him  out,  to  keep  the 
plant  to  themselves ;  an'  so  he  came  to  you  for  any- 
thing he  could  pick  up.     An'  now " 

Viney  cursed  them  all,  and  Blind  George  and 
himself  together ;  but  most  he  cursed  Marr ;  and  so 
talking,  the  two  men  walked  to  and  fro  in  the 
passage. 

^  ^  =1^  ^  =)f!  If! 

I  could  see  that  Viney  was  angry,  and  growing 
angrier  still.  But  I  gave  all  my  attention  to  the 
work  at  the  fouled  hawser.  The  man  in  the  boat, 
working  patiently  with  a  boat-hook,  succeeded  sud- 

[158] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
denly  and  without  warning,  so  that  he  almost 
pitched  headlong  into  the  river.  The  rope  came  up 
from  its  entanglement  with  a  spring  and  a  splash, 
flinging  some  amazing  gi'eat  object  up  with  it, 
half  out  of  water ;  and  the  men  gave  a  cry  as  this 
thing  lapsed  heavily  to  the  surface. 

The  man  in  the  boat  snatched  his  hook  again  and 
reached  for  the  thing  as  it  floated.  Somebody 
threw  him  a  length  of  line,  and  with  this  he  made  it 
fast  to  his  boat,  and  began  pulling  toward  the 
stairs,  towing  it.  I  was  puzzled  to  guess  what  the 
object  might  be.  It  was  no  part  of  the  lighter's 
rudder,  for  it  lay  in,  rather  than  on,  the  water,  and 
it  rolled  and  wallowed,  and  seemed  to  tug  heavily, 
so  that  the  boatman  had  to  pull  his  best.  I  won- 
dered if  he  had  caught  some  curious  water-crea- 
ture— a  porpoise  perhaps,  or  a  seal,  such  as  had 
been  flung  ashore  in  a  winter  storm  at  Blackwall  a 
year  before. 

Viney  and  Grandfather  Nat  had  turned  their 
steps  toward  the  stairs,  and  as  they  neared,  my 
grandfather,  lifting  his  eyes,  saw  the  boatman 
and  his  prize,  and  saw  the  watermen  leaving  their 
boats  for  the  foreshore.  With  a  quick  word  to 
[159  J 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

Viney  he  hastened  down  the  stairs ;  and  Viney 
himself,  less  interested,  followed  half  way  down, 
and  waited. 

The  boatman  brought  up  alongside  the  foreshore, 
and  he  and  another  hauled  at  the  tow-rope.  The 
thing  in  the  water  came  in,  rolling  and  bobbing, 
growing  more  hideously  distinct  as  it  came;  it 
checked  at  the  mud  and  stones,  turned  over,  and 
with  another  pull  lay  ashore,  staring  and  grey  and 
streaming:  a  dead  man. 

The  lips  were  pulled  tight  over  the  teeth,  and, 
the  hair  being  fair,  it  was  the  plainer  to  see  that  one 
side  of  the  head  and  forehead  was  black  and  open 
with  a  great  wound.  The  limbs  lay  limp  and  tum- 
bled, all ;  but  one  leg  fell  aside  with  so  loose  a  twist 
that  plainly  it  was  broken ;  and  I  heard,  after- 
ward, that  it  was  the  leg  that  had  caused  the  dif- 
ficulty with  the  hawser. 

Grandfather  Nat,  down  at  the  waterside,  had  no 
sooner  caught  sight  of  the  dead  face  than  with 
wide  eyes  he  turned  to  Viney  and  shouted  the  one 
word  "  Look !  "  Then  he  went  and  took  another 
view,  longer  and  closer ;  and  straightway  came  back 
in  six  strides  to  the  stairs,  whereon  Viney  was  no 
[160] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
longer  standing,  but  sitting,  his  face  tallowy  and 
his  grin  faded. 

"  See  him?  "  cried  Grandfather  Nat  in  a  hushed 
voice.  "  See  him !  It's  Marr  himself,  if  I  know 
him  at  all !     Come — come  and  see !  " 

Viney  pulled  his  arm  from  the  old  man's  grasp, 
turned,  and  crawled  up  a  stair  or  two.  "  No,"  he 
said  faintly,  "  I — I  won't,  now — I — they'd  know 
me  p'rhaps,  some  of  them."  His  breath  was  short, 
and  he  gulped.  "  Good  God,"  he  said  presently, 
"  it's  him — it's  him  sure  enough.  And  the  clothes 
he  had  on.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  Cap'en — Cap'en 
Nat ;  go  an'  try  his  pockets. — Go  on !  There's  a 
pocket-book — leather  pocket-book.  .  .  .  Go 
on!" 

"  What's  the  good.''  "  asked  Captain  Nat,  with  a 
lift  of  the  eyebrows,  and  the  same  low  voice. 
"  What's  the  good.''  I  can't  fetch  it  away,  with  all 
them  witnesses.  Go  yourself,  an'  say  you're  his 
pardner;  you'd  have  a  chance  then." 

"  No^ — no.  I — it  ain't  good  enough.  You  know 
'em;  I  don't.  I'll  stand  in  with  you — give  you  a 
hundred  if  it's  all  there!  Square  'em — you  know 
'em!" 

[161] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  If  they're  to  be  squared  you  can  do  it  as  well 
as  me.  There'll  be  an  inquest  on  this,  an'  evidence. 
I  ain't  going  to  be  asked  what  I  did  with  the  man's 
pocket-book.  No.  I  don't  meddle  in  this,  Mr. 
Viney.  If  it  ain't  good  enough  for  you  to  get  it 
for  yourself,  it  ain't  good  enough  for  me  to  get  it 
for  you." 

"  Kemp,  I'll  go  you  halves — there !  Get  it,  an' 
there's  four  hundred  for  you.  Eight  hundred  an' 
odd  quid,  in  a  pocket-book.  Come,  that's  worth  it, 
ain't  it.?  Eight  hundred  an'  odd  quid — in  a  leather 
pocket-book !    An'  I'll  go  you  halves." 

Captain  Nat  started  at  the  words,  and  stood  for 
a  moment,  staring.  "  Eight  hundred !  "  he  repeated 
under  his  breath.  "  Eight  hundred  an'  odd  quid. 
In  a  leather  pocket-book.  Ah !  "  And  the  stare 
persisted  and  grew  thoughtful. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Viney,  now  a  little  more  himself. 
"  Now  you  know;  an'  it's  worth  it,  ain't  it.?  Don't 
waste  time — they're  turning  liim  over  themselves. 
You  can  manage  all  these  chaps.     Go  on !  " 

"  I'll  see  if  anything's  there,"  answered  Captain 
Nat.  "  More  I  can't ;  an'  if  there's  nothing  that's 
an  end  of  it." 

[  162] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
He  went  down  to  where  the  men  were  bending 
over  the  body,  to  disengage  the  tow-Hne.  He 
looked  again  at  the  drawn  face  under  the  gaping 
forehead,  and  said  something  to  the  men ;  then 
he  bent  and  patted  the  sodden  clothes,  now  here, 
now  there ;  and  at  last  felt  in  the  breast  pocket. 

Meantime  Viney  stood  feverishly  on  the  stairs, 
watching;  fidgetting  nervously  down  a  step,  and 
then  down  another,  and  then  down  two  more. 
And  so  till  Captain  Nat  returned. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  Cleaned  out,"  he 
reported,  "  Cleaned  out,  o'  course.  Hit  on  the  head 
an'  cleaned  out,  like  many  a  score  better  men  before 
him,  down  these  parts.  Not  a  thing  in  the  pockets 
anywhere.     Flimped  clean." 

Viney's  eyes  were  wild.  "  Notliing  at  all  left?  " 
he  said.  "  Nothing  of  his  own.'*  Not  a  watch,  nor 
anything.''  " 

"  No,  not  a  watch,  nor  anything." 
Viney  stood  staring  at  space  for  some  moments, 
murmuring  many  oaths.     Then  he  asked  suddenly, 
"Where's    this   blind    chap.''     Where    can    I    find 
Blind  George?" 

Grandfather   Nat   shook   his   head.      "  He's   all 
[163  J 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
over  the  neighbourhood,"  he  answered.     "  Try  the 
Highway ;    I  can't  give  you  nearer  than  that." 

And  with  no  more  counsel  to  help  him,  Mr.  Viney 
was  fain  to  depart.  He  went  grinning  and  cursing 
up  the  passage  and  so  toward  the  bridge,  without 
another  word  or  look.  And  when  I  turned  to  my 
grandfather  I  saw  him  staring  fixedly  at  me,  lost  in 
thought,  and  rubbing  his  hand  up  in  his  hair  be- 
hind, through  the  grey  and  out  at  the  brown  on 
top. 


[  164  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

C|)apter  Ctoel\)e 


IN    THE    CLUB-ROOM 


IjY  the  side  of  the  bills  stuck  at  the  corner  of 
Hole-in-the-Wall  Stairs — the  bills  that  had  so  fas- 
cinated Stephen — a  new  one  appeared,  with  the 
heading  "  Body  Found."  It  particularized  the 
personal  marks  and  description  of  the  unhappy 
Marr ;  his  "  fresh  complexion,"  his  brown  hair,  his 
serge  suit  and  his  ankle  jacks.  The  bill  might  have 
stood  on  every  wall  in  London  till  it  rotted,  and 
never  have  given  a  soul  who  knew  him  a  hint  to 
guess  the  body  his:  except  Viney,  who  knew  the 
fact  already.  And  the  body  might  have  been 
buried  unidentified  ere  Viney  would  have  shown 
himself  in  the  business,  were  it  not  for  the  inter- 
ference of  Mr.  Cripps.  For  industry  of  an  un- 
profitable kind  was  a  piece  of  Mr.  Cripps's  nature ; 
and,  moreover,  he  was  so  regular  a  visitor  at  the 
mortuary  as  to  have  grown  an  old  friend  of  the 
keeper.  His  persistent  prying  among  the  ghastly 
liers-in-state,  at  first  on  plea  of  identifying  a 
friend — a  contingency  likely  enough,  since  his 
longshore  acquaintance  was  wide — and  later  under 
[167] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

tlie  name  of  friendly  calls,  was  an  indulgence  that 
had  helped  him  to  consideration  as  a  news-monger, 
and  twice  had  raised  him  to  the  elevation  of  witness 
at  an  inquest ;  a  distinction  very  gratifying  to  his 
simple  vanity.  He  entertained  high  hopes  of  being 
called  witness  in  the  case  of  the  man  stabbed  at 
the  side  door  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall;  and  was 
scarce  seen  at  Captain  Nat's  all  the  next  day,  pre- 
ferring to  frequent  the  mortuary.  So  it  happened 
that  he  saw  the  other  corpse  that  was  carried  thence 
from  Hole-in-the-Wall   Stairs. 

"  There  y'are,"  said  the  mortuary-keeper. 
"  There's  a  fresh  'un,  just  in  from  the  river,  un- 
known.    You  dunno  'im  either,  I  expect." 

But  Mr.  Cripps  was  quite  sure  that  he  did. 
Curious  and  eager,  he  walked  up  between  the  two 
dead  men,  his  grimy  little  body  being  all  that  di- 
vided them  in  this  their  grisly  reunion.  "  I  do 
know  'em,"  he  insisted,  thoughtfully.  "  Least- 
ways I've  seen  'im  somewheres,  I'm  sure."  The 
little  man  gazed  at  the  dreadful  head,  and  then 
at  the  rafters :  then  shut  his  eyes  with  a  squeeze 
that  drove  his  nose  into  amazing  lumps  and  wrin- 
kles; then  looked  at  the  head  again,  and  squeezed 
f  168  1 


IN  THE  CLUB-  ROOM 
his  eyelids  together  once  more ;  and  at  last  started 
back,  his  eyes  rivalling  his  very  nose  itself  for 
prominence.  "  Why  !  "  he  gasped,  "  it  is  !  It  is, 
s'elp  me!  .  .  .  It's  Mr.  Marr,  as  is  pardners 
with  Mr.  Viney !  I  on'y  see  'im  once  in  my  life, 
but  I'll  swear  it's  'im !  .  .  .  Lord,  what  a 
phenomenal  go !  " 

And  with  that  Mr.  Cripps  rushed  off  incontinent 
to  spread  the  news  wherever  anybody  would  listen. 
He  told  the  police,  he  told  the  loafers,  he  told  Cap- 
tain Nat  and  everybody  in  his  bar;  he  told  the 
watermen  at  the  stairs,  he  shouted  it  to  the  purlmen 
in  their  boats,  and  he  wriggled  into  conversation 
with  perfect  strangers  to  tell  them  too.  So  that  it 
came  to  pass  that  Viney,  being  called  upon  by  the 
coroner's  officer,  was  fain  to  swallow  his  reluctance 
and  come  forward  at  the  inquest. 

That  was  held  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  twenty- 
four  hours  after  the  body  had  been  hauled  ashore. 
The  two  inquests  were  held  together,  in  fact, 
Marr's  and  that  of  the  broken-nosed  man,  stabbed 
in  the  passage.  Two  inquests,  or  even  three,  in 
a  day,  made  no  uncommon  event  in  those  parts, 
where  perhaps  a  dozen  might  be  held  in  a  week, 
[169] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 

mostly  ending  with  the  same  doubtful  verdict — 
Found  Drowned.  But  here  one  of  the  inquiries 
related  to  an  open  and  witnessed  murder,  and 
that  fact  gave  some  touch  of  added  interest  to  the 
proceedings. 

Accordingly  a  drifting  group  hung  about  the 
doors  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  at  the  appointed  time, 
— just  such  an  idle,  changing  group  as  had  hung 
there  all  the  evening  after  the  man  had  been 
stabbed ;  and  in  the  midst  stood  Blind  George  with 
his  fiddle,  his  vacant  white  eye  rolling  upward,  his 
mouth  full  of  noisy  ribaldry,  and  his  fiddle  playing 
punctuation  and  chorus  to  all  he  said  or  sang.  He 
turned  his  ear  at  the  sound  of  many  footsteps  leav- 
ing the  door  near  him. 

"  There  they  go !  "  he  sang  out ;  "  there  they  go, 
twelve  on  'em !  "  And  indeed  it  was  the  jury  going 
off  to  view  the  bodies.  "  There  they  go,  twelve 
good  men  and  true,  an'  bloomin'  proud  they  are  to 
fancy  it!  Got  a  copper  for  Blind  George,  gentle- 
men.'' Not  a  brown  for  pore  George? 
Not  them ;  not  a  brass  farden  among  the  'ole  damn 
good  an'  lawful  lot.  .  .  .  Ahoy !  ain't  Gub- 
bins  there — the  good  an'  lawful  pork-butcher  as 
[170] 


IN     THE     CLUB-ROOM 

'ad  to  pay  forty  bob  for  shovin'  a  lump  o'  fat  under 
the  scales  ?  Tell  the  crowner  to  mind  'is  pockets !  " 
The  idlers  laughed,  and  one  flung  a  copper, 
which  Blind  George  snatched  almost  before  it  had 
fallen.  "  Ha !  ha !  "  he  cried,  "  there's  a  toff  some- 
where near,  I  can  tell  by  the  sound  of  his  money ! 
Here   goes    for   a   stave ! "     And   straightway    he 

broke  into: — 

0  they  call  me  hanging  Johnny, 
With  my  hang,  hoys,  hang  ! 

The  mortuary  stood  at  no  great  distance,  and 
soon  the  jury  were  back  in  the  club-room  over  the 
bar,  and  at  work  on  the  first  case.  The  police  had 
had  some  difficulty  as  to  identification  of  the  stabbed 
man.  The  difficulty  arose  not  only  because  there 
were  no  relations  in  the  neighbourhood  to  feel  the 
loss,  but  as  much  because  the  persons  able  to  make 
the  identification  kept  the  most  distant  possible 
terms  with  the  police,  and  withheld  information 
from  them  as  a  matter  of  principle.  Albeit  a  re- 
luctant ruffian  was  laid  hold  of  who  was  induced 
sulkily  to  admit  that  he  had  known  the  deceased  to 
speak  to,  and  lodged  near  him  in  Blue  Gate ;  that 
the  deceased  was  called  Bob  Kipps;  that  he  was 
[171] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
quite  lately  come  into  the  neighbourhood ;  and  that 
he  had  no  particular  occupation,  as  far  as  witness 
knew.  It  needed  some  pressure  to  extract  the  in- 
formation that  Kipps,  during  the  short  time  he  was 
in  Blue  Gate,  chiefly  consorted  with  one  Dan  Ogle, 
and  that  witness  had  seen  nothing  of  Ogle  that  day, 
nor  the  day  before. 

There  was  also  a  woman  called  to  identify — a 
woman  more  reluctant  than  the  man;  a  woman  of 
coarse  features,  dull  eyes,  towzled  hair,  and  thick 
voice,  sluttish  with  rusty  finery.  Name,  Margaret 
Flynn ;  though  at  the  back  of  the  little  crowd  that 
had  squeezed  into  the  court  she  was  called  Musky 
]Mag.  It  was  said  there,  too,  that  Mag,  in  no  de- 
gree one  of  the  fainting  sort,  had  nevertheless 
swooned  when  taken  into  the  mortuary — gone  clean 
off  with  a  flop ;  true,  she  explained  it,  afterward,  by 
saying  that  she  liad  only  expected  to  see  one  body, 
but  found  herself  brought  face  to  face  with  two*, 
and  of  course  there  was  the  other  there — Marr's. 
But  it  was  held  no  such  odds  between  one  corpse 
and  two  that  an  outer-and-outer  like  Mag  should 
go  on  the  faint  over  it.  This  was  reasonable 
enough,  for  the  crowd.  But  not  for  a  woman  who 
[  172  ] 


IN  THE  CLUB-ROOM 
had  sat  to  drink  with  three  men,  and  in  a  short  hour 
or  so  had  fallen  over  the  battered  corpse  of  one  of 
them,  in  the  dark  of  her  room ;  who  had  been  forced, 
now,  to  view  the  rent  body  of  a  second,  and  in  doing 
it  to  meet  once  again  the  other,  resurrected,  bruised, 
sodden  and  horrible ;  and  who  knew  that  all  was  the 
work  of  the  last  of  the  three,  and  that  man  in  peril 
of  the  rope :  the  man,  too,  of  all  the  world,  in  her 
eyes — 

Her  evidence,  given  with  plain  anxiety  and  a 
nervous  unsteadiness  of  the  mouth,  added  nothing 
to  the  tale.  The  man  was  Bob  Kipps ;  he  was  a 
stranger  till  lately — came,  she  had  heard  tell,  from 
Shoreditch  or  Hoxton;  saw  him  last  a  day  or  two 
ago;  knew  nothing  of  his  death  be3'ond  what  she 
had  heard ;  did  not  know  where  Dan  Ogle  was  ( this 
very  vehemently,  with  much  shaking  of  the  head)  ; 
had  not  seen  him  with  deceased — but  here  the  police 
inspector  handed  the  coroner  a  scribbled  note,  and 
the  coroner  having  read  it  and  passed  it  back,  said 
no  more.  Musky  Mag  stood  aside ;  while  the  in- 
spector tore  the  note  into  small  pieces  and  put  the 
pieces  in  his  pocket. 

Nathaniel  Kemp,  landlord  of  the  house,  told  the 
[  173] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
story  of  the  murder  as  he  saw  it,  and  of  his  chase 
of  the  murderer.  Did  not  know  deceased,  and 
should  be  unable  to  identify  the  murderer  if  he  met 
him  again,  having  seen  no  more  than  his  figure  in 
the  dark. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Cripps  had  been  standing,  in 
eager  trepidation,  foremost  among  the  little  crowd, 
nodding  and  lifting  his  hand  anxiously,  strenuous 
to  catch  the  coroner's  officer's  attention  at  the  dis- 
missal of  each  Avitness,  and  fearful  lest  his  offer  of 
evidence  made  a  dozen  times  before  the  coroner 
came,  should  be  forgotten.  Now  at  last  the  cor- 
oner's officer  condescended  to  notice  him,  and  being 
beckoned,  Mr.  Cripps  swaggered  forward,  his 
greasy  wideawake  crushed  under  his  arm,  and  his 
face  radiant  with  delighted  importance.  He  bowed 
to  the  coroner,  kissed  the  book  with  a  flourish,  and 
glanced  round  the  court  to  judge  how  much  of  the 
due  impression  was  yet  visible. 

The  coroner  signified  that  he  was  ready  to  hear 
whatever  ]\lr.  Cripps  knew  of  this  matter. 

Mr.    Cripps   "  threw   a   chest,"    struck    an    arm 
akimbo,   and   raised  the  other  with  an  oratorical 
sweep  so  large  that  his  small  voice,  when  it  came, 
[174] 


IN     THE     CLUB-ROOM 

seemed  all  the  smaller.  "  Hi  was  in  the  bar,  sir," 
he  piped,  "  the  bar,  sir,  of  this  'ouse,  bein'  long  ac- 
quainted with  an'  much  respectin'  Cap'en  Kemp, 
an'  in  the  'abit  of  visitin'  'ere  in  the  intervals  of  the 
pursoot  of  my  hart.  Hem !  Hi  was  in  the  bar,  sir, 
when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  sudden  noise 
be'ind,  or  as  I  may  say,  in  the  rear  of,  the  bar- 
parlour.  Hi  was  able  to  distinguish,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  what  might  be  called,  in  a  common  way 
o'  speakin',  a  bump  or  a  bang,  sich  as  would  be 
occasioned  by  a  unknown  murderer  criminally 
shoving  his  un'appy  victim's  'ed  ag'in  the  back- 
door of  a  public-'ouse.  Hi  was  able  to  distinguish 
it,  sir,  from  a  'uman  cry  which  followed :  a  'uman 
cry,  or  as  it  might  be,  a  holler,  sich  as  would  be 
occasioned  by  the  un'appy  victim  'avin'  'is  'ed 
shoved  ag'in  the  back-door  aforesaid.  Genelmen, 
I  'esitated  not  a  moment.      I  rushed  forward." 

Mr.  Cripps  paused  so  long  to  give  the  statement 
effect  that  the  coroner  lost  patience.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  you  rushed  fonvard.  Do  you  mean  you 
jumped  over  the  bar.''  " 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Cripps's  countenance  fell; 
truly  it  would  have  been  more  imposing  to  have 
[  175  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
jumped  over  the  bar.  But  he  was  on  his  oath,  and 
he  must  do  his  best  with  the  facts.  "  No,  sir,"  he 
explained,  a  Httle  tamely,  "  not  over  the  bar,  but 
reether  the  opposite  wa}'^,  so  to  speak,  towards  the 
door.  I  rushed  forward,  genehuen,  in  a  sort  of 
rearwards  direction,  through  the  door,  an'  round 
into  the  alley.  Immediate  as  I  turned  the  corner, 
genelmen,  I  be'eld  with  my  own  eyes  the  unknown 
murderer;  I  see  'im  a-risin'  from  over  'is  un'appy 
victim,  an'  I  see  as  the  criminal  tragedy  had  tran- 
spired.    I- — I  rushed  forward." 

The  sensation  he  looked  for  being  slow  in  com- 
ing, another  rush  seemed  expedient ;  but  it  fell  flat 
as  the  first,  and  Mr.  Cripps  struggled  on,  desper- 
ately conscious  that  he  had  nothing  else  to  say. 

"  I  rushed  forward,  sir ;  seein'  which  the  mis- 
creant absconded — absconded,  no  doubt  with — 
with  the  proceeds ;  an'  seein'  Cap'en  Kemp  ab- 
scondin'  after  him,  I  turned  an'  be'eld  the  un'appy 
victim — the  corpse  now  in  custody,  sir — a-layin' 
in  the  bar-parlour,  'elpless  an' — an' — decimated. 
I — rushed  forward." 

It  was  sad  to  see  how  little  the  coroner  was  im- 
pressed ;  there  was  even  something  in  his  face  not 
[176] 


IN  THE  CLUB-ROOM 
unlike  a  smile ;  and  Mr.  Cripps  was  at  the  end  of 
his  resources.  But  if  he  could  have  seen  the  face 
of  Musky  Mag,  in  the  little  crowd  behind  him,  he 
might  have  been  consoled.  She  alone,  of  all  who 
heard,  had  followed  his  rhetoric  with  an  agony  of 
attention,  word  by  word ;  even  as  she  had  followed 
the  earlier  evidence.  Now  her  strained  face  was 
the  easier  merely  by  contrast  with  itself  when  Mr. 
Cripps  was  in  full  cry ;  and  a  moment  later  it  was 
tenser  than  ever. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Cripps,"  the  coroner  said ;  "  no 
doubt  you  were  very  active,  but  we  don't  seem  to 
have  increased  the  evidence.  You  say  you  saw  the 
man  who  stabbed  the  deceased  in  the  passage.  Did 
you  know  him  at  all.''     Ever  see  him  before?  " 

Here,  mayhap,  was  some  chance  of  an  effect  after 
all.  Mr.  Cripps  could  scarce  have  distinguished 
the  murderer  from  one  of  the  posts  in  the  alley ; 
but  he  said,  with  all  the  significance  he  could  give 
the  words :  "  Well,  sir,  I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  swear 
to  'is  name,  sir;  no,  sir,  not  to  'is  name,  certainly 
not."  And  therewith  he  made  his  sensation  at  last, 
bringing  upon  himself  the  twenty-four  eyes  of  the 
jury  all  together. 

[177] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE      WALL 

The  coroner  looked  up  sharply.  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  you  know  him  by  sight  then  ?  Does  he  belong  in 
the  neighbourhood?  " 

Now  it  was  not  Mr.  Cripps  who  had  said  he 
knew  the  murderer  by  sight,  but  the  coroner.  Far 
be  it  from  him,  thought  the  aspirant  for  fame,  to 
contradict  the  coroner,  and  so  baulk  himself  of 
the  credit  thus  thrust  upon  him.  So  he  answered 
with  the  same  cautious  significance  and  a  succes- 
sion of  portentous  nods.  "  Your  judgment,  sir,  is 
correct ;   quite  correct." 

"  Come  then,  this  is  important.  You  would  be 
able  to  recognise  him  again,  of  course?  " 

There  was  no  retreat — Mr.  Cripps  was  in  for  it. 
It  was  an  unforeseen  consequence  of  the  quibble, 
but  since  plunge  he  must  he  plunged  neck  and  crop. 

"  I'd  know  'im  anywhere,"  he  said  triumphantly. 

There  was  an  odd  sound  in  the  crowd  behind,  and 
a  fall.  Captain  Nat  strode  across,  and  the  crowd 
wondered  ;  for  Musky  Mag  had  fainted  again. 

The  landlord  lifted  her,  and  carried  her  to  the 
stairs.     When  the  door  had  closed  behind  them,  and 
the  coroner's  officer  had  shouted  the  little  crowd  into 
silence,  the  inquest  took  a  short  course  to  its  end. 
[178] 


IN     THE     CLUB-ROOM 
Mr.  Cripps,  in  the  height  of  his  consequence,  be- 
gan to  feel  serious  misgivings  as  to  the  issue  of  his 
stumble  beyond  the  verities ;  and  the  coroner's  next 
words  were  a  relief. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  enough,  Mr.  Cripps,"  the 
coroner  said ;  "  no  doubt  the  police  will  be  glad  of 
your  assistance."  And  with  that  he  gave  the  jury 
the  little  summing  up  that  the  case  needed.  There 
was  the  medical  evidence,  and  the  evidence  of  the 
stabbing,  and  that  evidence  pointed  to  an  unmis- 
takable conclusion.  Nobody  was  in  custody,  nor 
had  the  murderer  been  positively  identified,  and 
such  evidence  as  there  was  in  this  respect  was  for 
the  consideration  of  the  police.  He  thought  the 
jury  would  have  no  difficulty  in  arriving  at  a  ver- 
dict. The  jury  had  none;  and  the  verdict  was 
Murder  by  some  Person  or  Persons  unknown. 

The  other  inquest  gave  even  less  trouble.  INIr. 
Henry  Viney,  shipowner,  had  seen  the  body,  and 
identified  it  as  that  of  his  partner  Lewis  INIarr. 
Marr  had  suddenly  disappeared  a  week  ago,  and  an 
examination  of  his  accounts  showed  serious  defal- 
cations, in  consequence  of  which  witness  had  filed 
his  petition  in  bankruptcy.  Whether  or  not  Marr 
[179] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

had  taken  money  with  him  witness  could  not  say,  as 
deceased  had  entire  charge  of  the  accounts ;  but  it 
seemed  more  hkely  that  embezzlement  had  been 
going  on  for  some  time  past,  and  Marr  had  fled 
when  detection  could  no  longer  be  averted.  This 
might  account  for  his  dressing,  and  presumably 
seeking  work,  as  a  sailor. 

The  divisional  surgeon  of  police  had  examined 
the  body,  and  found  a  large  wound  on  the  head, 
fully  sufficient  to  have  caused  death,  inflicted  either 
by  some  heavy,  blunt  instrument,  or  by  a  fall  from 
a  height  on  a  hard  substance.  One  thigh  was  frac- 
tured, and  there  were  other  wounds  and  contusions, 
but  these,  as  well  as  the  broken  thigh,  were  clearly 
caused  after  death,  while  the  body  was  drifting  in 
the  water.  The  blow  on  the  head  might  have  been 
caused  by  an  accident  on  the  riverside,  or  it  might 
have  been  inflicted  wilfully  by  an  assailant. 

Then  there  was  the  evidence  of  the  man  who 
had  found  the  body  foul  of  a  rudder  and  a  haw- 
ser, and  of  the  police  who  had  found  nothing  on 
the  body.  And  there  was  no  more  evidence  at  all. 
The  coroner  having  sympathised  deeply  with  Mr. 
Viney,  gave  the  jury  the  proper  lead,  and  the  jury 
M  80  1 


IN  THE  CLUB-ROOM 
with  perfect  propriety  returned  the  open  verdict 
that  the  doctor's  evidence  and  the  coroner's  lead 
suggested.  The  case,  except  for  the  circumstances 
of  Marr's  flight,  was  hke  a  hundred  others  inquired 
upon  thereabout  in  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and  in 
an  hour  it  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  forgotten,  even 
by  the  Httle  crowd  that  clumped  downstairs  to  try 
both  cases  all  over  again  in  the  bar  of  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall. 

To  the  coroner,  the  jury,  and  the  little  crowds 
these  were  two  inquests  with  nothing  to  connect 
them  but  the  accident  of  time  and  the  convenience 
of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  club-room.  But  Blind 
George,  standing  in  the  street  with  his  fiddle,  and 
getting  the  news  from  the  club-room  in  scraps  be- 
tween song  and  patter,  knew  more  and  guessed 
better. 


181 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cljapter  Cfjirteen 


STEPHEN'S    TALE 

Continued 


J-  FOUND  it  a  busy  morning  at  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall,  that  of  the  two  inquests.  I  perceived  that, 
by  some  occult  understanding,  business  in  one  de- 
partment was  suspended;  the  pale  man  idled  with- 
out, and  nobody  came  into  the  little  compartment 
to  exhibit  valuables.  Grandfather  Nat  had  a  deal 
to  do  in  making  ready  the  club-room  over  the  bar, 
and  then  in  attending  the  inquests.  And  it  turned 
out  that  Mrs.  Grimes  had  settled  on  this  day  in 
particular  to  perfomi  a  vast  number  of  extra  feats 
of  housewifery  in  the  upper  floors.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  disturbance  of  this  additional  work,  Mrs. 
Grimes  was  most  amazingly  amiable,  even  to  me; 
but  she  was  so  persistent  in  requiring,  first  the  key 
of  one  place,  then  of  another,  next  of  a  chest  of 
drawers,  and  again  of  a  cupboard,  that  at  last  my 
grandfather  distractedly  gave  her  the  whole  bunch, 
and  told  her  not  to  bother  him  any  more.  The 
bunch  held  all  she  could  require — indeed  I  think 
it  comprised  every  key  my  grandfather  had,  ex- 
cept that  of  his  cash  box — and  she  went  away 
f  185  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

with  it  amiable  still,  notwithstanding  the  hastiness 
of  his  expressions ;  so  that  I  was  amazed  to  find 
Mrs.  Grimes  so  meek,  and  wondered  vaguely  and 
childishly  if  it  were  because  she  felt  ill,  and  ex- 
pected to  die  shortly. 

Mr.  Cripps  was  in  the  bar  as  soon  as  the  doors 
were  open,  in  a  wonderful  state  of  effervescence. 
He  was  to  make  a  great  figure  at  the  inquest,  it 
appeared,  and  the  pride  and  glory  of  it  kept  him 
nervously  on  the  strut,  till  the  coroner  came,  and 
Mr.  Cripps  mounted  to  the  club-room  with  the 
jury.  He  was  got  up  for  his  part  as  completely 
as  circumstances  would  allow ;  grease  was  in  his 
hair,  his  hat  stood  at  an  angle,  and  his  face  ex- 
hibited an  unfamiliar  polish,  occasioned  by  a  towel. 

For  my  own  part,  I  sat  in  the  bar-parlour  and 
amused  myself  as  I  might.  Blind  George  was 
singing  in  the  street,  and  now  and  again  I  could 
hear  the  guffaw  that  signalised  some  sally  that 
had  touched  his  audience.  Above,  things  were 
quiet  enough  for  some  while,  and  then  my  grand- 
father came  heavily  downstairs  carrying  a  woman 
who  had  fainted.  I  had  not  noticed  the  woman 
among  the  people  who  went  up,  but  now  Grand- 

r  186  1 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
father  Nat  brought  her  through  the  bar,  and  into 
the  parlour;  and  as  she  lay  on  the  floor  just  as 
the  stabbed  man  had  lain,  I  recognised  her  face 
also ;  for  she  was  the  coarse-faced  woman  who  had 
stopped  my  grandfather  near  Blue  Gate  with 
vague  and  timid  questions,  when  we  were  on  our 
way  from  the  London  Dock. 

Grandfather  Nat  roared  up  the  little  staircase 
for  Mrs,  Grimes,  and  presently  she  descended, 
amiable  still ;  till  she  saw  the  coarse  woman,  and 
was  asked  to  help  her.  She  looked  on  the  woman 
with  something  of  surprise  and  something  of  con- 
fusion; but  carried  it  off"  at  once  with  a  toss  of 
the  head,  a  high  phrase  or  so — "  likes  of  'er — 
respectable  woman " — and  a  quick  retreat  up- 
stairs. 

I  believe  my  grandfather  would  have  brought 
her  down  again  by  main  force,  but  the  woman 
on  the  floor  stirred,  and  began  scrambling  up, 
even  before  she  knew  where  she  was.  She  held 
the  shelf,  and  looked  dully  about  her,  with  a  hoarse 
"  Beg  pardon,  sir,  beg  pardon."  Then  she  went 
across  toward  the  door,  which  stood  ajar,  stared 
stupidly,  with  a  look  of  some  dawning  alarm,  and 
[187] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 
said  again,  "  Beg  pardon,  sir — I  bin  queer ;  "  and 
with  that  was  gone  into  the  passage. 

It  was  not  long  after  her  departure  ere  the 
business  above  was  over,  and  the  people  came 
tramping  and  talking  down  into  the  bar,  filling 
it  close,  and  giving  Joe  the  potman  all  the  work 
he  could  do.  The  coroner  came  down  by  our  pri- 
vate stairs  into  the  bar-parlour,  ushered  with  great 
respect  by  my  grandfather;  and  at  his  heels,  tak- 
ing occasion  by  a  desperately  extemporised  con- 
versation with  Grandfather  Nat,  came  Mr.  Cripps. 

There  had  never  been  an  inquest  at  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall  before,  and  my  grandfather  had  been 
at  some  exercise  of  mind  as  to  the  proper  enter- 
tainment of  the  coroner.  He  had  decided,  after 
consideration,  that  the  gentleman  could  scarce  be 
offended  at  the  offer  of  a  little  lunch,  and  to  that 
end  he  had  made  ready  with  a  cold  fowl  and  a 
bottle  of  claret,  which  IMrs.  Grimes  would  pres- 
ently be  putting  on  the  table.  The  coroner  was 
not  offended,  but  he  would  take  no  lunch;  he  was 
very  pleasantly  obliged  by  the  invitation,  but  his 
lunch  had  been  already  ordered  at  some  distance; 
and  so  he  shook  hands  with  Grandfather  Nat  and 
[188] 


STEPHEN      S      TALE 
went  his  way.     A  circumstance  that  had  no  small 
effect  on  my  history. 

For  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Cripps,  who  saw  the  cor- 
oner go,  that  by  dexterous  management  the  vacant 
place  at  our  dinner-table  (for  what  the  coroner 
would  call  lunch  we  called  dinner)  might  fall  to 
himself.  It  had  happened  once  or  twice  before, 
on  special  occasions,  that  he  had  been  allowed  to 
share  a  meal  with  Captain  Nat,  and  now  that  he 
was  bimshed  and  oiled  for  company,  and  had  pub- 
licly distinguished  himself  at  an  inquest,  he  was 
persuaded  that  the  occasion  was  special  beyond 
precedent,  and  he  set  about  to  improve  it  with  an 
assiduity  and  an  innocent  cunning  that  were  very 
transparent  indeed.  So  he  was  affectionately  ad- 
miring with  me,  deferentially  loquacious  with  my 
grandfather,  and  very  friendly  with  Joe  the  pot- 
man and  Mrs.  Grimes.  It  was  a  busy  morning, 
he  observed,  and  he  would  be  glad  to  do  anything 
to  help.  , 

At  that  time  the  houses  on  Wapping  Wall  were 

not  encumbered  with  dust-bins,  since  the  river  was 

found  a  more  convenient  receptacle   for  rubbish. 

Slops  were  flung  out  of  a  back  window,  and  kitchen 

[189  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
refuse  went  the  same  way,  or  was  taken  to  the 
river  stairs  and  turned  out,  either  into  the  water 
or  on  the  foreshore,  as  the  tide  might  chance. 
Mrs.  Grimes  carried  about  with  her  in  her  dust- 
ings and  sweepings  an  old  coal-scuttle,  which  held 
hearth-brushes,  shovels,  ashes,  cinders,  potato- 
peelings,  and  the  like ;  and  at  the  end  of  her  work, 
when  the  brushes  and  shovels  had  been  put  away, 
she  carried  the  coal-scuttle,  sometimes  to  the  near- 
est window,  but  more  often  to  the  river  stairs,  and 
flung  what  remained  into  the  Thames.     • 

Just  as  Mr.  Cripps  was  at  his  busiest  and  po- 
litest, Mrs.  Grimes  appeared  with  the  old  coal- 
scuttle, piled  uncommonly  high  with  ashes  and 
dust  and  half-burned  pipe-lights.  She  set  it  down 
by  the  door,  gave  my  gi'andfather  his  keys,  and 
turned  to  prepare  the  table.  Instantly  Mr.  Cripps, 
watchful  in  service,  pounced  on  the  scuttle. 

"  I'll  pitch  this  'ere  away  for  you,  mum,"  he 
said,  "  while  you're  seein'  to  Cap'en  Kemp's  din- 
ner;" and  straightway  started  for  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Grimes's  back  was  turned  at  the  moment, 
and  this  gave  Mr.  Cripps  the  start  of  a  yard  or 
two;  but  she  flung  round  and  after  him  like  a 

r  1901 


STEPHEN      S     TALE 
maniac;    so    that    both    Grandfather    Nat    and    I 
stared  in  amazement. 

"  Give  me  that  scuttle !  "  she  cried,  snatching  at 
the  hinder  handle.  "  Mind  your  own  business,  an' 
leave  my  things  alone !  " 

Mr.  Cripps  was  amazed  also,  and  he  stuttered, 
"  I— I— I— on'y— on'y " 

"  Drop  it,  you  fool ! "  the  woman  hissed,  so 
suddenly  savage  that  Mr.  Cripps  did  drop  it,  with 
a  start  that  sent  him  backward  against  a  post; 
and  the  consequence  was  appalling. 

Mr.  Cripps  was  carrying  the  coal-scuttle  by  its 
top  handle,  and  Mrs.  Grimes,  reaching  after  it, 
had  seized  that  at  the  back ;  so  that  when  Mr. 
Cripps  let  go,  everything  in  the  scuttle  shot  out 
on  the  paving-stones ;  first,  of  course,  the  ashes 
and  the  pipe-lights;  then  on  the  top  of  them, 
crowning  the  heap — Grandfather  Nat's  cash-box! 

I  suppose  my  grandfather  must  have  recovered 
from  his  astonishment  first,  for  the  next  thing  I 
remember  is  that  he  had  Mrs.  Grimes  back  in  the 
bar-parlour,  held  fast  by  the  arm,  while  he  car- 
ried his  cash-box  in  the  disengaged  hand.  Mr. 
Cripps  followed,  bewildered  but  curious;  and  my 
[191  J 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL, 
grandfather,  pushing  his  prisoner  into  a  far  cor- 
ner, turned  and  locked  the  door. 

Mrs.  Grimes,  who  had  been  crimson,  was  now 
white ;  but  more,  it  seemed  to  me,  with  fury  than 
witli  fear.  My  grandfather  took  the  key  from 
his  watch-guard  and  opened  the  box,  holding  it 
where  the  contents  were  visible  to  none  but  him- 
self. He  gave  no  more  than  a  quick  glance  with- 
in, and  re-locked  it;  from  which  I  judged — and 
judged  aright — that  the  pocket-book  was  safe. 

"  There's  witnesses  enough  here,"  said  my 
grandfather, — for  Joe  the  potman  was  now  star- 
ing in  from  the  bar — "  to  give  up  a  good  dose  o' 
gaol,  mum.  'Stead  o'  which  I  pay  your  full  week's 
money  an'  send  you  packin' ! "  He  pulled  out 
some  silver  from  his  pocket.  "  Grateful  or  not  to 
me  don't  matter,  but  I  hope  you'll  be  honest  where 
you  go  next,  for  your  own  sake." 

"  Grateful !  Honest !  "  Mrs.  Grimes  gasped, 
shaking  with  passion.  "  'Ear  'im  talk !  Honest ! 
Take  me  to  the  station  now,  an'  bring  that  box 
an'  show  'em  inside  it !     Go  on  !  " 

I  felt  more  than  a  little  alarmed  at  this  chal- 
lenge, having  regard  to  the  history  of  the  pocket- 
[  192] 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
book;  and  I  remembered  the  night  when  we  first 
examined  it,  the  creaking  door,  and  the  soft  sounds 
on  the  stairs.  But  Grandfather  Nat  was  wholly 
undisturbed;  he  counted  over  the  money  calmly, 
and  pushed  it  across  the  little  table. 

"  There  it  is,  mum,"  he  said,  "  an'  there's  your 
bonnet  an'  shawl  in  the  corner.  There's  nothing 
else  o'  yours  in  the  place,  I  believe,  so  there's  no 
need  for  you  to  go  out  o'  my  sight  till  you  go 
out  of  it  altogether.  That  you'd  better  do  quick. 
-I'll  lay  the  dinner  myself." 

Mrs.  Grimes  swept  up  the  money  and  began 
fixing  her  bonnet  on  her  head  and  tying  the  strings 
under  her  chin,  with  savage  jerks  and  a  great  play 
of  elbow;  her  lips  screwing  nervously,  and  her 
eyes  blazing  with  spite. 

"  Ho  yus !  "  she  broke  out — though  her  rage 
was  choking  her — as  she  snatched  her  shawl.  "  Ho 
yus!  A  nice  pusson,  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp,  to  talk 
about  honesty  an'  gratefulness — a  nice  pusson! 
A  nice  teacher  for  young  master  'opeful,  I  must 
say,  an'  'opin'  'e'll  do  ye  credit!  It  ain't  the  last 
you'll  see  o'  me,  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp!  .  .  . 
Get  out  o'  my  way,  you  old  lickspittle ! " 
[193] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

Mr.  Cripps  got  out  of  it  with  something  hke  a 
bound,  and  JMrs.  Grimes  was  gone  with  a  flounce 
and  a  slam  of  the  door. 

Scold  as  she  was,  and  furious  as  she  was,  I  was 
conscious  that  something  in  my  grandfather's 
scowl  had  kept  her  speech  within  bounds,  and 
shortened  her  clamour ;  for  few  cared  to  face  Cap- 
tain Nat's  anger.  But  with  the  slam  of  the  door 
the  scowl  broke,  and  he  laughed. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  that's  well  over,  an'  I  owe 
you  a  turn,  Mr.  Cripps,  though  you  weren't  in- 
tending it.  Stop  an'  have  a  bit  of  dinner.  And 
if  you'd  like  something  on  account  to  buy  the 
board  for  the  sign — or  say  two  boards  if  you  like 
— we'll  see  about  it  after  dinner." 

It  will  be  perceived  that  Grandfather  Nat  had 
no  reason  to  regret  the  keeping  of  his  cash-box 
key  on  his  watch-guard.  For  had  it  been  with  the 
rest,  in  Mrs.  Grimes's  hands,  she  need  never  have 
troubled  to  smuggle  out  the  box  among  the  ashes, 
since  the  pocket-book  was  no  such  awkward  article, 
and  would  have  gone  in  her  pocket.  Mrs.  Grimes 
had  taken  her  best  chance  and  failed.  The  dis- 
orders caused  by  the  inquests  had  left  her  unob- 
[  194] 


STEPHENS     TAI.  E 
served,  the  keys  were  in  her  hands,  and  the  cash 
box  was   left  in  the  cupboard   upstairs ;   but   the 
sedulous  Mr.  Cripps  had  been  her  destruction. 

As  for  that  artist,  he  attained  his  dinner,  and  a 
few  shillings  under  the  name  of  advance;  and  so 
was  well  pleased  with  his  morning's  work. 


[  195 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cijapter  ^Fourteen 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


A  POLICEMAN  brought  my  grandfather  a 
bill,  which  was  stuck  against  the  bar  window  with 
gelatines;  and  just  such  another  bill  was  posted 
on  the  wall  at  the  head  of  Hole-in-the-Wall  Stairs, 
above  the  smaller  bills  that  advertised  the  found 
bodies.  This  new  bill  was  six  times  the  size  of 
those  below ;  it  was  headed  "  Murder "  in  grim 
black  capitals,  and  it  set  forth  an  offer  of  fifty 
pounds  reward  for  information  which  should  lead 
to  the  apprehension  of  the  murderer  of  Robert 
Kipps. 

The  offer  gave  Grandfather  Nat  occasion  for 
much  solemn  banter  of  Mr.  Cripps;  banter  which 
seemed  to  cause  Mr.  Cripps  a  curious  uneasiness, 
and  time  and  again  stopped  his  eloquence  in  full 
flood.  He  had  been  at  the  pains  to  cut  from  news- 
papers such  reports  of  the  inquest  as  were  printed ; 
and  though  they  sadly  disappointed  him  by  their 
brevity,  and  all  but  two  personally  affronted  him 
by  disregarding  his  evidence  and  himself  alto- 
gether, still  he  made  great  play  with  the  excep- 
[199] 


THE     HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 
tional  two,  in  the  bar.     But  he  was  quick  to  drop 
the  subject  when  Captain  Nat  urged  him  in  pur- 
suit of  the  reward. 

"  Come,"  my  grandfather  would  say,  "  you're 
neglecting  your  fortune,  you  know.  There's  fifty 
pound  waitin'  for  3'^ou  to  pick  up,  if  you'll  only 
go  an'  collar  that  murderer.  An'  you'd  know  him 
anywhere."  Whereupon  Mr.  Cripps  would  look  a 
little  frightened,  and  subside. 

I  did  not  learn  till  later  how  the  little  painter's 
vanity  had  pushed  him  over  bounds  at  the  inquest, 
so  far  that  he  committed  himself  to  an  absolute 
recognition  of  the  murderer.  The  fact  alarmed 
him  not  a  little,  on  his  return  to  calmness,  and  my 
grandfather,  who  understood  his  indiscretion  as 
well  as  himself,  and  enjoyed  its  consequences,  in 
his  own  grim  way,  amused  himself  at  one  vacant 
moment  and  another  by  setting  Mr.  Cripps's  alarm 
astir  again. 

"  You're  throwing  away  your  luck,"  he  would 
say,  perhaps,  "  seein'  you  know  him  so  well  by 
sight.  If  you're  too  well-off  to  bother  about  fifty 
pound,  give  some  of  us  poor  'uns  a  run  for  it,  an' 
put  us  on  to  him.     I  wish  I'd  been  able  to  see  him 

r  200  1 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
so  clear."  For  in  truth  Grandfather  Nat  well 
knew  that  nobody  had  had  so  near  a  chance  of 
seeing  the  murderer's  face  as  himself;  and  that 
Mr.  Cripps,  at  the  top  of  the  passage — perhaps 
even  round  the  corner — had  no  chance  at  all. 

It  was  because  of  Mr.  Cripps's  indiscretion,  in 
fact — this  I  learned  later  still — that  the  police 
were  put  off  the  track  of  the  real  criminal.  For 
after  due  reflection  on  the  direful  complications 
whereinto  his  lapse  pi'omised  to  fling  him,  that  dis- 
tinguished witness,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  fell 
into  a  sad  funk.  So,  though  he  needs  must  hold 
to  the  tale  that  he  knew  the  man  by  sight,  and 
could  recognise  him  again,  he  resolved  that  come 
what  might,  he  would  identify  nobody,  and  so 
keep  clear  of  further  entanglements.  Now  the  po- 
lice suspicions  fell  shrewdly  on  Dan  Ogle,  a  no- 
torious ruffian  of  the  neighbourhood.  He  had 
been  much  in  company  of  the  murdered  man  of 
late,  and  now  was  suddenly  gone  from  his  accus- 
tomed haunts.  Moreover,  there  was  the  plain  agi- 
tation of  the  woman  he  consorted  with,  Musky 
Mag,  at  the  inquest :  she  had  fainted,  indeed,  when 
Mr.  Cripps  had  been  so  positive  about  identify- 
[201  J 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 

ing  the  murderer.  These  things  were  nothing  of 
evidence,  it  was  true;  for  that  they  must  depend 
on  the  witness  who  saw  the  fellow's  face,  knew 
him  by  sight,  and  could  identify  liim.  But  when 
they  came  to  this  witness  with  their  inquiries  and 
suggestions  the  thing  went  overboard  at  a  breath. 
Was  the  assassin  a  tall  man?  Not  at  all — rather 
short,  in  fact.  Was  he  a  heavy-framed,  bony 
fellow.'^  On  the  contrary,  he  was  fat  rather  than 
bony.  Did  Mr.  Cripps  ever  happen  to  have  seen 
a  man  called  Dan  Ogle,  and  was  this  man  at  all 
like  him.P  Mr.  Cripps  had  been  familiar  with  Dan 
Ogle's  appearance  from  his  youth  up  (this  was 
true,  for  the  painter's  acquaintance  was  wide  and 
diverse)  but  the  man  who  killed  Bob  Kipps  was 
as  unlike  him  as  it  was  possible  for  any  creature 
on  two  legs  to  be.  Then,  would  Mr.  Cripps,  if 
the  thing  came  to  trial,  swear  that  the  man  he 
saw  was  not  Dan  Ogle.?  Mr.  Cripps  was  most 
fervently  and  desperately  ready  and  anxious  to 
swear  that  it  was  not,  and  could  not  by  any  pos- 
sibility be  Dan  Ogle,  or  anybody  like  him. 

This   brought   the   police  inquiries   to  a   fault; 
even  had  their  suspicions  been  stronger  and  bet- 
[  202  ] 


STEPHEN  S  T  A  E  E 
ter  supported,  it  would  have  been  useless  to  arrest 
Dan  Ogle,  supposing  they  could  find  him ;  for 
this,  the  sole  possible  witness  to  identity,  would 
swear  him  innocent.  So  they  turned  their  in- 
quiries to  fresh  quarters,  looking  among  the  wa- 
terside population  across  the  river — since  it  was 
plain  that  the  murderer  had  rowed  over — for  re- 
cent immigrants  from  Wapping.  For  a  little 
while  Mr.  Cripps  was  vexed  and  disquieted  with 
invitations  to  go  with  a  plain-clothes  policeman 
and  "  take  a  quiet  look  "  at  some  doubtful  char- 
acter; but  of  course  with  no  result,  beyond  the 
welcome  one  of  an  occasional  free  drink  ordered 
as  an  excuse  for  waiting  at  bars  and  tavern-cor- 
ners ;  and  in  time  these  attentions  ceased,  for  the 
police  were  reduced  to  waiting  for  evidence  to  turn 
up ;  and  Mr.  Cripps  breathed  freely  once  more. 
While  Dan  Ogle  remained  undisturbed,  and  jus- 
tice was  balked  for  a  while ;  for  it  turned  out 
in  the  end  that  when  the  police  suspected  Dan 
Ogle  they  were  right,  and  when  they  went  to 
other  conjectures  they  were  wrong. 

All  this  was  ahead  of  my  knowledge  at  the  mo- 
ment, however,  as,  indeed,  it  is  somewhat  ahead  of 
[  203  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
my  story ;  and  for  the  while  I  did  no  more  than 
wonder  to  see  Mr.  Cripps  abashed  at  an  encourage- 
ment to  earn  fifty  pounds;  for  he  seemed  not  a 
penny  richer  than  before,  and  still  inrpetrated  odd 
coppers  on  account  of  the  sign-board  of  promise. 

Once  or  twice  we  saw  Mr.  Viney,  and  on  each 
occasion  he  borrowed  money  of  Grandfather  Nat. 
The  police  were  about  the  house  a  good  deal  at 
this  time,  because  of  the  murder,  or  I  think  he 
might  have  come  oftener.  The  first  time  he  came 
I  heard  him  telling  my  grandfather  that  he  had 
got  hold  of  Blind  George,  that  Blind  George  had 
told  him  a  good  deal  about  the  missing  money, 
and  that  with  his  help  he  hoped  for  a  chance  of 
saving  some  of  it.  He  added,  mysteriously,  that 
it  had  been  "  nearer  hereabouts  than  you  might 
think,  at  one  time;"  a  piece  of  news  that  my 
grandfather  received  with  a  proper  appearance  of 
surprise.  But  was  it  safe  to  confide  in  Blind 
George.''  Viney  swore  for  answer,  and  said  that 
the  rascal  had  stipulated  for  such  a  handsome 
share  that  it  would  pay  him  to  play  square. 

On   the  last   of  these  visits   I   again  overheard 
some  scraps  of  their  talk,   and   this   time   it   was 
[  204  ] 


STEPHEN  S  TAI.  E 
angrier.  I  judged  that  Viney  wanted  more  money 
than  my  grandfather  was  disposed  to  give  him. 
They  were  together  in  the  back  room  where  the 
boxes  and  bottles  were — the  room  into  which  I 
had  seen  Bill  Stagg's  head  and  shoulders  thrust 
by  way  of  the  trap-door.  My  grandfather's  voice 
was  low,  and  from  time  to  time  he  seemed  to  be 
begging  Viney  to  lower  liis ;  so  that  I  wondered 
to  find  Grandfather  Nat  so  mild,  since  in  the  bar 
he  never  twice  told  a  man  to  lower  his  voice,  but 
if  once  were  not  enough,  flung  him  into  the  street. 
And  withal  Viney  paid  no  heed,  but  talked  as  he 
would,  so  that  I  could  catch  his  phrases  again  and 
again. 

"  Let  them  hush  as  is  afraid — I  ain't,"  he  said. 
And  again:  "  O,  am  I?  Not  me.  .  .  .  It's  little 
enough  for  me,  if  it  does ;  not  the  rope,  anyway." 
And  later,  "  Yes,  the  rope,  Cap'en  Kemp,  as  you 
know  well  enough ;  the  rope  at  Newgate  Gaol. 
.  .  .  Dan  Webb,  aboard  o'  the  Florence.  .  .  . 
The  Florence  that  was  piled  up  on  the  Little  Din- 
goes in  broad  day.  ...  As  you  was  ordered 
o'  course,  but  that  don't  matter.  .  .  .  That's 
what  I  want  now,  an'  no  less.  Think  it  lucky  I 
[  205  ] 


THE     HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 
offer  to  pay  back  when  I  get —     .     .     .     Well,  be 
sensible —     .     .     .     I'm  friendly  enough.     .     .     . 
Very  well." 

Presently  my  grandfather,  blacker  than  com- 
mon about  brow  and  eyes,  but  a  shade  paler  on 
the  cheek,  came  into  the  bar-parlour  and  opened 
the  trade  cash-box — not  the  one  that  Mrs.  Grimes 
had  hidden  among  the  cinders,  but  a  smaller  one 
used  for  gold  and  silver.  He  counted  out  a  num- 
ber of  sovereigns — twenty,  I  believe — put  the  box 
away,  and  returned  to  the  back  room.  And  in  a 
few  minutes,  with  little  more  talk,  Mr.  Viney  was 
gone. 

Grandfather  Nat  came  into  the  bar-parlour 
again,  and  his  face  cleared  when  he  saw  me,  as  it 
always  would,  no  matter  how  he  had  been  ruffled. 
He  stood  looking  in  my  face  for  a  little,  but  with 
the  expression  of  one  whose  mind  is  engaged  else- 
where. Then  he  rubbed  his  hand  on  my  head,  and 
said  abstractedly,  and  rather  to  himself,  I  fancied, 
than  to  me :  "  Never  mind,  Stevy ;  we  got  it  back 
beforehand,  forty  times  over."  A  remark  that  I 
thought  over  afterward,  in  bed,  with  the  reflection 
that  forty  times  twenty  was  eight  hundred. 
[  206  ] 


Stephen's  tale 
But  Mr.  Vinej's  talk  in  the  back  room  brought 
most  oddly  into  my  mind,  in  a  way  hard  to  ac- 
count for,  the  first  question  I  put  to  my  grand- 
father after  my  arrival  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall: 
"  Did  you  ever  kill  a  man,  Grandfather  Nat?  " 


[  207] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Ci)apter  jfifteen 


STEPHEN'S    TALE 

Continued 


-I-  HE  repeated  multiplication  of  twenty  by  forty 
sent  me  to  sleep  that  night,  and  I  woke  with  that 
arithmetical  exercise  still  running  in  my  head.  A 
candle  was  alight  in  the  room — ours  was  one  of 
several  houses  in  Wapping  Wall  without  gas — 
and  I  peeped  sleepily  over  the  bed-clothes.  Grand- 
father Nat  was  sitting  with  the  cash-box  on  his 
knees,  and  the  pocket-book  open  in  his  hand.  He 
may  just  have  been  counting  the  notes  over  again, 
or  not;  but  now  he  was  staring  moodily  at  the 
photograph  that  lay  with  them.  Once  or  twice 
he  turned  his  eyes  aside,  and  then  back  again  to 
the  picture,  as  though  searching  his  memory  for 
some  old  face;  then  I  thought  he  would  toss  it 
away  as  something  valueless;  but  when  his  glance 
fell  on  the  fireless  grate  he  returned  the  card  to 
its  place  and  locked  the  box. 

When  the  cash-box  was  put  away  in  the  little 

cupboard    at    his    bed-head,    he    came    across    and 

looked  down  at  me.     At  first  I  shut  my  eyes,  but 

peeped.      I    found    him    looking    on    me    with    a 

[211] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

troubled  and  thoughtful  face ;  so  that  presently  I 
sat  up  with  a  jump  and  asked  him  what  he  was 
thinking  about. 

"  Fox's  sleep,  Stevy  ?  "  he  said,  with  his  hand 
under  my  chin.  "  Well,  boy,  I  was  thinking  about 
you.  I  was  thinking  it's  a  good  job  your  father's 
coming  home  soon,  Stevy ;  though  I  don't  like 
parting  with  you." 

Parting  with  me?  I  did  not  understand. 
Wouldn't  father  be  going  away  again  soon.'' 

"  Well  I  dunno,  Stevy,  I  dunno.  I've  been 
thinking  a  lot  just  lately,  that's  a  fact.  This 
place  is  good  enough  for  me,  but  it  ain't  a  good 
place  to  bring  up  a  boy  like  you  in;  not  to  make 
him  the  man  I  want  you  to  be,  Stevy.  Somehow 
it  didn't  strike  me  that  way  at  first,  though  it 
ought  to  ha'  done.  It  ought  to  ha'  done,  seein' 
it  struck  strangers  —  an'  not  particular  moral 
strangers  at  that." 

He  was  thinking  of  Blind  George  and  Mrs. 
Grimes.  Though  at  the  moment  I  wondered  if  his 
talk  with  Mr.  Viney  had  set  him  doubting. 

"  No,  Stevy,"  he  resumed,  "  it  ain't  giving  you 
a  proper  chance,  keeping  you  here.  You  can't 
[  212  ] 


STEPHEN      S      T  A  E  E 
get  lavender  water  out  o'  the  bilge,  an'  this  part's 
the  bilge  of  all  London.     I  want  you  to  be  a  bet- 
ter man  than  me,  Stevy." 

I  could  not  imagine  anybody  being  a  better  man 
than  Grandfather  Nat,  and  the  prospect  of  leav- 
ing him  oppressed  me  dismally.  And  where  was 
I  to  go  ^  I  remembered  the  terrible  group  of  aunts 
at  my  mother's  funeral,  and  a  shadowy  fear  that 
I  might  be  transferred  to  one  of  those  virtuous 
females — perhaps  to  Aunt  Martha — put  a  weight 
on  my  heart.  "  Don't  send  me  away,  Gran'fa' 
Nat !  "  I  pleaded,  with  something  pulling  at  the 
corners  of  my  mouth ;  "  I  haven't  been  a  bad  boy 
yet,  have  I  ?  " 

He  caught  me  up  and  sat  me  on  his  forearm, 
so  that  my  face  almost  touched  his,  and  I  could 
see  my  little  white  reflection  in  his  eyes.  "  You're 
the  best  boy  in  England,  Stevy,"  he  said,  and 
kissed  me  affectionately.  "  The  best  boy  in  the 
world.  An'  I  wouldn't  let  go  o'  you  for  a  minute 
but  for  your  own  good.  But  see  now,  Stevy,  see; 
as  to  goin'  away,  now.  You'll  have  to  go  to 
school,  my  boy,  won't  you?  An'  the  best  school 
we  can  manage — a  gentleman's  school ;  boardin' 
[  213  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WAI.  I. 

school,  you  know.  Well,  that'll  mean  goin'  away, 
won't  it?  An'  then  it  wouldn't  do  for  you  to  go 
to  a  school  like  that,  not  from  here,  you  know — 
which  you'll  understand  when  you  get  there,  among 
the  others.  My  boy — my  boy  an'  your  father's 
— has  got  to  be  as  good  a  gentleman  as  any  of 
'em,  an'  not  looked  down  on  because  o'  coming 
from  a  Wapping  public  like  this,  an'  sent  by  a 
rough  old  chap  like  me.     See.-^  " 

I  thought  very  hard  over  this  view  of  tilings, 
which  was  difficult  to  understand.  Who  should 
look  down  on  me  because  of  Grandfather  Nat,  of 
whom  I  was  so  fond  and  so  proud  .-^  Grandfather 
Nat,  who  had  sailed  ships  all  over  the  world,  had 
seen  storms  and  icebergs  and  wrecks,  and  who  was 
treated  with  so  much  deference  by  everybody  who 
came  to  the  Hole  in  the  Wall.''  Then  I  thought 
again  of  the  aunts  at  the  funeral,  and  remembered 
how  they  had  tilted  their  chins  at  him ;  and  I  won- 
dered, with  forebodings,  if  people  at  a  boarding- 
school  were  like  those  aunts. 

"  So  I've  been  thinking,  Stevy,  I've  been  think- 
ing," my  grandfather  went  on,  after  a  pause. 
"  Now,  there's  the  wharf  on  the  Cop.  The  work's 
I  214  1 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
gettin'  more,  an'  Grimes  is  gettin'  older.  But  you 
don't  know  about  the  wharf.  Grimes  is  the  man 
that  manages  there  for  me;  he's  Mrs.  Grimes's 
brother-in-law,  an'  when  his  brother  died  he  rec- 
ommended the  widder  to  me,  an'  that's  how  she 
came :  an'  now  she's  gone ;  but  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  Years  ago  Grimes  himself  an'  a  boy 
was  enough  for  all  the  work  there  was ;  now  there's 
three  men  reg'lar,  an'  work  for  more.  Most  o' 
the  lime  comes  off  the  barges  there  for  the  new 
gas-works,  an'  more  every  week.  Now  there's 
business  there,  an'  a  respectable  business  —  too 
much  for  Grimes.  An'  if  your  father'll  take  on 
a  shore  job — an'  it's  a  hard  life,  the  sea — here  it 
is.  He  can  have  a  share — have  the  lot  if  he  likes 
— for  your  sake,  Stevy;  an'  it'll  build  up  into  a 
good  thing.  Grimes  '11  be  all  right — we  can  al- 
ways find  a  job  for  him.  An'  you  can  go  an'  live 
with  your  father  somewhere  respectable  an'  con- 
venient; not  such  a  place  as  Wapping,  an'  not 
such  people.  An'  you  can  go  to  school  from  there, 
like  any  other  young  gentleman.  We'll  see  about 
it  when  your  father  comes  home." 

"  But  sha'n't  I  ever  see  you,  Gran'fa'  Nat.?  " 
[215] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WAEL 

"  See  me,  mj  boy  ?  Ay,  that  you  will — if  you 
don't  grow  too  proud — that  you  will,  an'  great 
times  we'll  have,  you  an'  your  father  an'  me,  all 
ashore  together,  in  the  holidays,  won't  we?  An' 
I'll  take  care  of  your  own  little  fortune — the 
notes — till  you're  old  enough  to  have  it.  I've  been 
thinking  about  that,  too."  Here  he  stood  me  on 
my  bed  and  playfully  pushed  me  back  and  for- 
ward by  the  shoulders.  "  I've  been  thinking  about 
that,  an'  if  it  was  lyin'  loose  in  the  street  I'd  be 
puzzled  clean  to  say  who'd  really  lost  it,  what  with 
one  thing  an'  another.  But  it  ain^t  in  the  street, 
an'  it's  yours,  with  no  puzzle  about  it.  But  there 
— lie  down,  Stevy,  an'  go  to  sleep.  Your  old 
grandfather's  lioldin'  forth  worse'n  a  parson,  eh.'^ 
Comes  o'  bcin'  a  lonely  man  an'  havin'  nobody  to 
talk  to,  except  myself,  till  you  come.  Lie  down 
an'  don't  bother  yourself.  We  must  wait  till  your 
father  comes  home.  We'll  keep  watch  for  the 
Juno  in  the  List — she  ought  to  ha'  been  reported 
at  Barbadoes  before  this.  An'  we  must  run  down 
to  Blackwall,  too,  an'  see  if  there's  any  letters 
from  him.  So  go  to  sleep  now,  Stevy — we'll  set- 
[216J 


STEPHEN      S     TALE 
tie   it    all — we'll    settle   it    all    when    your    father 
comes  home !  " 

So  I  lay  and  dozed,  with  words  to  send  me  to 
sleep  instead  of  figures :  till  they  made  a  tune  and 
seemed  to  dance  to  it.  "  When  father  comes  home : 
when  father  comes  home:  we'll  settle  it  all,  when 
father  comes  home !  "  And  presently,  in  some  un- 
accountable way,  Mr.  Cripps  came  into  the  dance 
with  his  "  Up  to  their  r'yals,  up  to  their  r'yals : 
the  wessels  is  deep  in,  up  to  their  r'yals !  "  and  so 
I  fell  asleep  wholly. 

In  the  morning  I  was  astir  early,  and  watching 
the  boats  and  the  shipping  from  the  bedroom  win- 
dow ere  my  grandfather  had  ceased  his  alarming 
snore.  It  was  half  an  hour  later,  and  Grandfather 
Nat  was  busy  with  his  razor  on  the  upper  lip  that 
my  cheeks  so  well  remembered,  when  we  heard  Joe 
the  potman  at  the  street  door.  Whereat  I  took 
the  keys  and  ran  down  to  let  him  in ;  a  feat  which 
I  accomplished  by  aid  of  a  pair  of  steps,  much 
tugging  at  heavy  bolts,  and  a  supreme  wrench  at 
the  big  key. 

[217] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALE 
Joe  brought  Lloyd's  List  in  with  him  every 
morning  from  the  early  newsagent's  in  Cable 
Street.  I  took  the  familiar  journal  at  once,  and 
dived  into  the  midst  of  its  quaint  narrow  columns, 
crowded  with  italics,  in  hope  of  news  from  Bar- 
badoes.  For  I  wished  to  find  for  myself,  and  run 
upstairs,  with  a  child's  importance,  to  tell  Grand- 
father Nat.  But  there  was  no  news  from  Barba- 
does — that  is,  there  was  no  news  of  my  father's 
ship.  The  name  Barbadoes  stood  boldly  enough, 
with  reports  below  it,  of  arrivals  and  sailings,  and 
one  of  an  empty  boat  washed  ashore;  but  that 
was  all.  So  I  sat  where  I  was,  content  to  wait, 
and  to  tell  Grandfather  Nat  presently,  offhand 
from  over  my  paper,  like  a  politician  in  the  bar, 
that  there  was  no  news.  Thus,  cutting  the  leaves 
with  a  table-knife,  my  mind  on  my  father's  voy- 
age, it  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  not  spell  La 
(iuaira,  the  name  of  the  port  his  ship  was  last  re- 
ported from ;  and  I  turned  the  paper  to  look  for 
it.  The  name  was  there,  with  only  one  message 
attached,  and  while  I  was  slowly  conning  the  let- 
ters over  for  the  third  time,  I  was  suddenly  aware 
[218] 


STEPHEN      S      TAI.  E 

of  a  familiar  word  beneath — the  name  of  the  Juno 
herself.     And  this  was  the  notice  that  I  read: 

LA  GUAIRA,  Sep.  1. 
The   Juno    (brig)    of   London,   Beecher,    from 
this   for  Barbadoes,   foundered   N    of   Margarita. 
Total    loss.      All    crew    saved    except    first    mate. 
Master  and  crew  landed  Margarita. 


219 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  ^ixtttn 


STEPHEN'S   TJLE 

Continued 


1  CANNOT  remember  how  I  reached  Grand- 
father Nat.  I  must  have  dimbed  the  stairs,  and 
I  fancy  I  ran  into  him  on  the  landing ;  but  I  only 
remember  his  grim  face,  oddly  grey  under  the 
eyes,  as  he  sat  on  his  bed  and  took  the  paper  in 
his  hand.  I  do  not  know  even  what  I  said,  and 
I  doubt  if  I  knew  then ;  the  only  words  present 
to  my  mind  were  "  all  crew  saved  except  first 
mate  " ;  and  very  likely  that  was  what  I  said. 

My  grandfather  drew  me  between  his  knees,  and 
I  stood  with  his  arm  about  me  and  his  bowed  head 
against  my  cheek.  I  noticed  bemusedly  that  with 
his  hair  fresh-brushed  the  line  between  the  grey 
and  the  brown  at  the  back  was  more  distinct  than 
common ;  and  when  there  was  a  sudden  clatter  in 
the  bar  below  I  wondered  if  Joe  had  smashed 
something,  or  if  it  were  only  a  tumble  of  the  pew- 
ters. So  we  were  for  a  little;  and  then  Grand- 
father Nat  stood  up  with  a  sound  between  a  sigh 
and  a  gulp,  looking  strangely  askant  at  me,  as 
though  it  surprised  him  to  find  I  was  not  crying. 
[223] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
For  my  part  I  was  dimly  perplexed  to  see  that 
neither  was  he;  though  the  grey  was  still  under 
his  eyes,  and  his  face  seemed  pinched  and  old. 
"  Come,  Stevy,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  like  a 
groan ;  "  we'll  have  the  house  shut  again." 

I  cannot  remember  that  he  spoke  to  me  any 
more  for  an  hour,  except  to  ask  if  I  would  eat 
any  breakfast,  which  I  did  with  no  great  loss  of 
appetite;  though  indeed  I  was  trying  very  hard 
to  think,  hindered  by  an  odd  vacancy  of  mind 
that  made  a  little  machine  of  me. 

Breakfast  done,  my  grandfather  sent  Joe  for  a 
cab  to  take  us  to  Blackwall.  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  the  unaccustomed  conveyance,  and  rather 
pleased.  When  we  were  ready  to  go,  we  found 
Mr.  Cripps  and  two  other  regular  frequenters  of 
the  bar  waiting  outside.  I  think  Mr.  Cripps 
meant  to  have  come  forward  with  some  prepared 
condolence;  but  he  stopped  short  when  he  saw  my 
grandfather's  face,  and  stood  back  with  the  others. 
The  four-wheeler  was  a  wretched  vehicle,  reeking  of 
strong  tobacco  and  stale  drink;  for  half  the  em- 
ployment of  such  cabs  as  the  neighbourhood  pos- 
sessed was  to  carry  drunken  sailors,  flush  of  money, 
[  224] 


STEPHEN      S      TALE 
who    took    bottles    and    pipes    with    them    every- 
where. 

Whether  it  was  the  jolting  of  the  cab — Wap- 
ping  streets  were  paved  with  cobbles — that  shook 
my  faculties  into  place;  whether  it  was  the  asso- 
ciation of  the  cab  and  the  journey  to  Blackwall 
that  reminded  me  of  my  mother's  funeral ;  or 
whether  it  was  the  mere  lapse  of  a  little  time,  I 
cannot  tell.  But  as  we  went,  the  meaning  of  the 
morning's  news  grew  on  me,  and  I  realised  that 
my  father  was  actually  dead,  drowned  in  the  sea, 
and  that  I  was  wholly  an  orphan ;  and  it  struck 
me  with  a  sense  of  self-reproach  that  the  fact 
afflicted  me  no  more  than  it  did.  When  my  mother 
and  my  little  brother  had  died  I  had  cried  myself 
sodden  and  faint;  but  now,  heavy  of  heart  as  I 
was,  I  felt  curiously  ashamed  that  Grandfather 
Nat  should  see  me  tearless.  True,  I  had  seen  very 
little  of  my  father,  but  when  he  was  at  home  he 
was  always  as  kind  to  me  as  Grandfather  Nat 
himself,  and  led  me  about  with  him  everywhere ; 
and  last  voyage  he  had  brought  me  a  little  boom- 
erang, and  only  laughed  when  I  hove  it  through 
a  window  that  cost  him  three  shillings.  Thus  I 
f  225  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
pondered  blinkingly  in  the  cab;  and  I  set  down 
my  calmness  to  the  reflection  that  my  mother 
would  have  him  always  with  her  now,  and  be  all 
the  happier  in  heaven  for  it;  for  she  always  cried 
when  he  went  to  sea. 

So  at  last  we  came  in  sight  of  the  old  quay, 
and  had  to  wait  till  the  bridge  should  swing  be- 
hind a  sea-beaten  ship,  with  her  bulwarks  patched 
with  white  plank,  and  the  salt  crust  thick  on  her 
spars.  I  could  see  across  the  lock  the  three  little 
front-windows  of  our  house,  shut  close  and  dumb; 
and  I  could  hear  the  quick  chant  from  the  quay, 
where  the  capstan  turned : — 

O,  1  served  my  time  on  the  Black  Ball  Line, 

Hurrah  for  the  Black  Ball  Line  ! 
From  the  South  Sea  north  to  the  sixty-nine. 

Hurrah  for  the  Black  Ball  Line  ! 

and  somehow  with  that  I  cried  at  last. 

The  ship  passed  in,  the  bridge  shut,  and  the 
foul  old  cab  rattled  again  till  it  stopped  before 
the  well-remembered  door.  The  house  had  been 
closed  since  my  mother  was  buried.  Grandfather 
Nat  paying  the  rent  and  keeping  the  key  on  my 
father's  behalf;  and  now  the  door  opened  with  a 
[  226  J 


Stephen's    tale 
protesting  creak  and  a  shudder,  and  the  air  within 
was  close  and  musty. 

There  were  two  letters  on  the  mat,  where  they 
had  fallen  from  the  letter-flap,  and  both  were  from 
my  father,  as  was  plain  from  the  writing.  We 
carried  them  into  the  little  parlour,  where  last  we 
had  sat  with  the  funeral  party,  and  my  grand- 
father lifted  the  blind  and  flung  open  the  win- 
dow.    Then  he  sat  and  put  one  letter  on  each  knee. 

"  Stevy,"  he  said,  and  again  his  voice  was  like 
a  groan ;  "  look  at  them  postmarks.  Ain't  one 
Belize.?" 

Yes,  one  was  Belize,  the  other  La  Guaira;  and 
both  for  my  mother. 

"  Ah,  one's  been  lyin'  here ;  the  other  must  ha' 
come  yesterday,  by  the  same  mail  as  brought  the 
news."  He  took  the  two  letters  again,  turned 
them  over  and  over,  and  shook  his  head.  Then 
he  replaced  them  on  his  knees  and  rested  his  fists 
on  his  thighs,  just  above  where  they  lay. 

"  I  don't  know  as  we  ought  to  open  'em, 
Stevy,"  he  said  wearily.  "I  dunno,  Stevy,  I 
dunno." 

He  turned  each  over  once  more,  and  shut  his 
[  227] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
fists  again.     "  I  dunno,  I  dunno.      .      .      .     Man 
an'  wife,  between  'emselves.     .     .     .     Wouldn't  do 
it,  living.     .     .     .     Stevy  boy,  we'll  take  'em  home 
an'  burn  'em." 

But  to  me  the  suggestion  seemed  incomprehen- 
sible— even  shocking.  I  could  see  no  reason  for 
burning  my  father's  last  message  home.  "  Per- 
haps there's  a  little  letter  for  me,  Gran'father 
Nat,"  I  said.  "  He  used  to  put  one  in  sometimes. 
Can't  we  look.''  And  mother  used  to  read  me  her 
letters  too." 

My  grandfather  sat  back  and  rubbed  his  hand 
up  through  his  hair  behind,  as  he  would  often  do 
when  in  perplexity.  At  last  he  said,  "  Well,  well, 
it's  hard  to  tell.  We  should  never  know  what  we'd 
burnt,  if  we  did  .  .  .  We'll  look,  Stevy  .  .  . 
An'  I'll  read  no  further  than  I  need.  Come,  the 
Belize  letter's  first  .  .  .  Send  I  ain't  doin' 
wrong,  that's  all." 

He  tore  open  the  cover  and  pulled  out  the  sheets 
of  flimsy  foreign  note-paper,  holding  them  to  the 
light  almost  at  arm's  length,  as  long-sighted  men 
do.  And  as  he  read,  slowly  as  always,  with  a  leath- 
ery forefinger  following  the  line,  the  grey  under 
r  228  1 


Stephen's  tale 
the  old  man's  eyes  grew  wet  at  last,  and  wetter. 
What  the  letter  said  is  no  matter  here.  There  was 
talk  of  me  in  it,  and  talk  of  my  little  brother — or 
sister,  as  it  might  have  been  for  all  my  father  could 
know.  And  again  there  was  the  same  talk  in  the 
second  letter — the  one  from  La  Guaira.  But  in 
this  letter  another  letter  was  enclosed,  larger  than 
that  for  my  mother,  which  was  in  fact  uncommonly 
short.  And  here,  where  the  dead  spoke  to  the  dead 
no  more,  but  to  the  living,  was  matter  that  dis- 
turbed my  grandfather  more  than  all  the  rest. 

The  enclosure  was  not  for  me,  as  I  had  hoped, 
but  for  Grandfather  Nat  himself;  and  it  was  not 
a  simple  loose  sheet  folded  in  with  the  rest,  but  a 
letter  in  its  own  smaller  envelope,  close  shut  down, 
with  the  words,  "  Cap'n  Kemp  "  on  the  face.  My 
grandfather  read  the  first  few  lines  with  increasing 
agitation,  and  then  called  me  to  the  window. 

"  See  here,  Stevy,"  he  said,  "  it's  wrote  small,  to 
get  it  in,  an'  I'm  slow  with  it.  Read  it  out  quick 
as  you  can." 

And  so  I  read  the  letter,  which  I  keep  still,  worn 
at  the  folds  and  corners  by  the  old  man's  pocket, 
where  he  carried  it  afterward. 
f  229  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
Dear  Father, — Just  a  few  lines  private  hop- 
ing they  find  you  welL  This  is  my  hardest  trip 
yet,  and  the  queerest,  and  I  write  in  case  any- 
thing happens  and  I  don't  see  you  again.  This 
is  for  yourself,  you  understand,  and  I  have  made 
it  all  cheerful  to  the  Mrs.,  specially  as  she  is  still 
off  her  health,  no  doubt.  Father,  the  Jutio  was 
not  meant  to  come  home  this  trip,  and  if  ever 
she  rounds  Blackwall  Point  again  it  will  be  in 
spite  of  the  skipper.  He  had  his  first  try  long 
enough  back,  on  the  voyage  out,  and  it  was  then 
she  was  meant  to  go ;  for  she  was  worse  found 
than  ever  I  saw  a  ship — even  a  ship  of  Viney's ; 
and  not  provisioned  for  more  than  half  the  run 
out,  proper  rations.  And  I  say  it  plain,  and 
will  say  it  as  plain  to  anybody,  that  the  vessel 
would  have  been  piled  up  or  dropped  under  and 
the  insurance  paid  months  before  you  get  this  if 
I  had  not  pretty  nigh  mutinied  more  than  once. 
He  said  he  would  have  me  in  irons,  but  he  sha'n't 
have  the  chance  if  I  can  help  it.  You  know 
Beecher.  Four  times  I  reckon  he  has  tried  to  pile 
her  up,  every  time  in  the  best  weather  and  near  a 
safe  port — foreign.  The  men  would  have  backed 
r  230  1 


STEPHEN      S     TALE 

me  right  through — some  of  them  did — but  they  de- 
serted one  after  another  all  round  the  coast,  Monte 
Video,  Rio  and  Bahia,  and  small  blame  to  them, 
and  we  filled  up  with  half-breeds  and  such.  The 
last  of  the  ten  and  the  boy  went  at  Bahia,  so  that 
now  I  have  no  witness  but  the  second  mate,  and 
he  is  either  in  it  or  a  fool — I  think  a  fool :  but  per- 
haps both.  Not  a  man  to  back  me.  Else  I  might 
have  tried  to  report  or  something,  at  Belize,  though 
that  is  a  thing  best  avoided  of  course.  No  doubt 
he  has  got  his  orders,  so  I  am  not  to  blame  him, 
perhaps.  But  I  have  got  no  orders — not  to  lose 
the  ship,  I  mean — and  so  I  am  doing  my  duty. 
Twice  I  have  come  up  and  took  the  helm  from  him, 
but  that  was  with  the  English  crew  aboard.  He 
has  been  quiet  lately,  and  perhaps  he  has  given  the 
j  ob  up ;  at  any  rate  I  expect  he  won't  try  to  pile 
her  up  again — more  likely  a  quiet  turn  below  with 
a  big  auger.  He  is  still  mighty  particular  about 
the  long-boat  being  all  right,  and  the  falls  clear, 
etc.  If  he  does  it  I  have  a  notion  it  may  be  some 
time  when  I  have  turned  in ;  I  can't  keep  awake 
all  watches.  And  he  knows  I  am  about  the  only 
man  aboard  who  won't  sign  whatever  he  likes  be- 
[231] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
fore  a  consul.  You  know  what  I  mean;  and  you 
know  Beecher  too.  Don't  tell  the  Mrs.  of  course. 
Say  this  letter  is  about  a  new  berth  or  what  not. 
No  doubt  it  is  all  right,  but  it  came  in  my  head  to 
drop  you  a  line,  on  the  off  chance,  and  a  precious 
long  line  I  have  made  of  it.  So  no  more  at  pres- 
ent from — Your  Affectionate  Son, 

Nathaniel. 

P.S.  I  am  in  half  a  mind  to  go  ashore  at  Bar- 
badoes,  and  report.  But  perhaps  best  not.  That 
sort  of  thing  don't  do. 

While  I  read,  my  grandfather  had  been  sitting 
with  his  head  between  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  di- 
rected to  the  floor,  so  that  I  could  not  see  his  face. 
So  he  remained  for  a  little  while  after  I  had  fin- 
ished, while  I  stood  in  troubled  wonder.  Then  he 
looked  up,  his  face  stern  and  hard  beyond  the  com- 
mon :  and  his  was  a  stern  face  at  best. 

"  Stevy,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  what  that 
means,  that  you've  been  a-readin'  ?  " 

I  looked  from  his  face  to  the  letter,  and  back 
again.      "  It  means — means     ...     I  think  the 
skipper  sank  the  ship  on  purpose." 
[  232  ] 


STEPHEN  S  TAEE 
"  It  means  Murder,  my  boy,  that's  what  it 
means.  Murder,  by  the  law  of  England !  '  Feloni- 
ously castin'  away  an'  destroyin' ; '  that's  what 
they  call  the  one  thing,  though  I'm  no  lawyer- 
man.  An'  it  means  prison ;  though  why,  when  a 
man  follows  orders  faithful,  I  can't  say ;  but  well 
I  know  it.  An'  if  any  man  loses  his  life  thereby 
it's  Murder,  whether  accidental  or  not ;  Murder  an' 
the  Rope,  by  the  law  of  England,  an'  bitter  well 
I  know  that  too !     O  bitter  well  I  know  it !  " 

He  passed  his  palm  over  his  forehead  and  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  was  silent.  Then  he  struck  the 
palm  on  his  knee  and  broke  forth  afresh. 

"  Murder,  by  the  law  of  England,  even  if  no 
more  than  accident  in  God's  truth.  How  much  the 
more  then  this  here,  when  the  one  man  as  won't 
stand  and  see  it  done  goes  down  in  his  berth.''  O, 
I've  known  that  afore,  too,  with  a  gimlet  through 
the  door-frame ;  an'  I  know  Beecher.  But  orders 
is  orders,  an'  it's  them  as  gives  them  as  is  to  reckon 
with.  I've  took  orders  myself.  .  .  .  Lord ! 
Lord !  an'  I've  none  but  a  child  to  talk  to !  A  lit- 
tle child !  .  .  .  But  you're  no  fool,  Stevy. 
See  here  now,  an'  remember.  You  know  what's 
[  233  ] 


THE      H  O  I,  E      IN      THE      W  ALL 
come  to   your  father?       He's  killed,  wilful;  mur- 
dered, like  what  they  hang  people  for,  at  Newgate, 
Stevy,  by  the  law.     An'  do  you  know  who's  done 
it?  " 

I  was  distressed  and  bewildered,  as  well  as 
alarmed  by  the  old  man's  vehemence.  "  The  cap- 
tain," I  said,  whimpering  again. 

"  Viney  !  "  my  grandfather  shouted.  "  Henry 
Viney,  as  I  might  ha'  served  the  same  way,  an'  I 
wish  I  had  !  Yiney  and  Marr's  done  it ;  an'  Marr's 
paid  for  it  already.  Lord,  Lord !  "  he  went  on, 
with  his  face  down  in  his  hands  and  his  elbows  on 
his  knees.  "  Lord !  I  see  a  lot  of  it  now  !  It  was 
what  they  made  out  o'  the  insurance  that  was  to 
save  the  firm ;  an'  when  my  boy  put  in  an'  stopped 
it  all  the  voyage  out,  an'  more,  they  could  hold  on 
no  longer,  but  plotted  to  get  out  with  what  they 
could  lay  hold  of.  Lord !  it's  plain  as  print,  plain 
as  print !  Stevy !  "  He  lowered  his  hands  and 
looked  up.  "  Stevy !  that  money's  more  yours  now 
than  ever.  If  I  ever  had  a  doubt — if  it  don't  be- 
long to  the  orphan  they've  made — but  there,  it's 
sent  you,  boy,  sent  you,  an'  anyone  'ud  believe  in 
Providence  after  that." 

In  a  moment  more  he  was  back  at  his  earlier  ex- 
[  234  ] 


STEPHEN  S  TALE 
citement.  "  But  it's  Viney's  done  it,"  he  said,  with 
his  fist  extended  before  him.  "  Remember,  Stevy, 
when  you  grow  up,  it's  Viney's  done  it,  an'  it's  Mur- 
der, by  the  law  of  England.  Viney  has  killed  your 
father,  an'  if  it  was  brought  against  him  it  'ud  be 
Murder !  " 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  we'll  go  to  the  police  station 
and  they  will  catch  him." 

My  grandfather's  hand  dropped.  "  Ah  Stevy, 
Stevy,"  he  groaned,  "  you  don't  know,  you  don't 
know.  It  ain't  enough  for  that,  an'  if  it  was— if 
it  was,  I  can't ;  I  can't — not  with  you  to  look  after. 
I  might  do  it,  an'  risk  all,  if  it  wasn't  for  that. 
.  .  .  My  God,  it's  a  judgment  on  me — a  cruel 
judgment!  My  own  son — an'  just  the  same  way 
— ^just  the  same  way  !  .  .  .  I  can't,  Stevy,  not 
with  you  to  take  care  of.  Stevy,  I  must  keep  my- 
self safe  for  your  sake,  an'  I  can't  raise  a  hand  to 
punish  Viney.  I  can't  Stevy,  I  can't ;  for  I'm 
a  guilty  man  myself,  by  the  law  of  England — an' 
Viney  knows  it !  Viney  knows  it !  Though  it 
wasn't  wilful,  as  God's  my  judge!  " 

Grandfather  Nat  ended  with  a  groan,  and  sat 
still,  with  his  head  bowed  in  his  hands.      Again  I 
remembered,  and  now  with  something  of  awe,  my 
[  235  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      W  A   E  L 
innocent    question :    "  Did   you    ever   kill    a    man, 
Grandfather  Nat?" 

Still  he  sat  motionless  and  silent,  till  I  could  en- 
dure it  no  longer:  for  in  some  way  I  felt  fright- 
ened. So  I  went  timidly  and  put  my  arm  about 
his  neck.  I  fancied,  though  I  was  not  sure,  that 
I  could  feel  a  tremble  from  his  shoulders ;  but  he 
was  silent  still.  Nevertheless  I  was  oddly  com- 
forted by  the  contact,  and  presently,  like  a  dog  anx- 
ious for  notice,  ventured  to  stroke  the  grey  hair. 

Soon  then  he  dropped  his  hands  and  spoke.  "  I 
shouldn't  ha'  said  it,  Stevy ;  but  I'm  all  shook  an' 
worried,  an'  I  talked  wild.  It  was  no  need  to  say 
it,  but  there  ain't  a  soul  alive  to  speak  to  else,  an' 
somehow  I  talk  as  it  might  be  half  to  myself.  But 
you  know  what  about  things  I  say — private  things 
— don't  you  ?  Remember  ?  "  He  sat  erect  again, 
and  raised  a  forefinger  wamingly,  even  sternly. 
"  Remember,  Stevy !  ,  .  .  But  come — there's 
things  to  do.  Give  me  the  letter.  We'll  get  to-, 
gether  any  little  things  to  be  kep',  papers  an'  what 
not,  an'  take  'em  home.  An'  I'll  have  to  think 
about  the  rest,  what's  best  to  be  done;  sell  'em,  or 
what.  But  I  dunno,  I  dunno !  " 
[236] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  g)et)enteen 


IN   BLUE    GATE 


±N  her  den  at  the  black  stair- top  in  Blue  Gate, 
Musky  Mag  lurked,  furtive  and  trembling,  after 
the  inquests  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall.  Where  Dan 
Ogle  might  be  hiding  she  could  not  guess,  and  she 
was  torn  between  a  hundred  fears  and  perplexities. 
Dan  had  been  seen,  and  could  be  identified ;  of  that 
she  was  convinced,  and  more  than  convinced,  since 
she  had  heard  Mr.  Cripps's  testimony.  Moreover 
she  well  remembered  at  what  point  in  her  own  evi- 
dence the  police-inspector  had  handed  the  note  to 
the  coroner,  and  she  was  not  too  stupid  to  guess 
the  meaning  of  that.  How  could  she  warn  Dan, 
how  help  or  screen  him,  how  put  to  act  that  simple 
fidelity  that  was  the  sole  virtue  remaining  in  her, 
all  the  greater  for  the  loss  of  the  rest?  She  had 
no  money ;  on  the  other  hand  she  was  confident  that 
Dan  must  have  with  him  the  whole  pocket-book  full 
of  notes  which  had  cost  two  lives  already,  and  now 
seemed  like  to  cost  the  life  she  would  so  gladly  buy 
with  her  own;  for  they  had  not  been  found  on 
Kipps's  body,  nor  in  any  way  spoken  of  at  the  in- 
\  239  J 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

quest.  But  then  he  might  fear  to  change  them. 
He  could  scarcely  carry  a  single  one  to  the  receiv- 
ers who  knew  him,  for  his  haunts  would  be  watched ; 
more,  a  reward  was  offered,  and  no  receiver  would 
be  above  making  an  extra  fifty  pounds  on  the  trans- 
action. For  to  her  tortured  mind  it  seemed  every 
moment  more  certain  that  the  cry  was  up,  and  not 
the  police  alone,  but  everybody  else  was  on  the 
watch  to  give  the  gallows  its  due.  She  was  uneasy 
at  having  no  message.  Doubtless  he  needed  her 
help,  as  he  had  needed  it  so  often  before ;  doubt- 
less he  would  come  for  it  if  he  could,  but  that 
would  be  to  put  his  head  in  the  noose.  How  could 
she  reach  him,  and  give  it.''  Even  if  she  had 
known  where  he  lay,  to  go  to  him  would  be 
to  lead  the  police  after  her,  for  she  had  no  doubt 
her  own  movements  would  be  watched.  She  knew 
that  the  boat  wherein  he  had  escaped  had  been 
found  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  she, 
like  others,  judged  from  that  that  he  might  be 
lurking  in  some  of  the  water-side  rookeries  of 
the  south  bank ;  the  more  as  it  was  the  commonest 
device  of  those  "  wanted "  in  Ratcliff  or  Wap- 
ping  to  "  go  for  a  change  "  to  Rotherhithe  or 
J  240  ] 


IN      BLUE      GATE 

Bankside,  and  for  those  in  a  like  predicament  on 
the  southern  shores  to  come  north  in  the  same 
way.  But  again,  to  go  in  search  of  him  were 
but  to  share  with  the  pohce  whatever  luck 
might  attend  the  quest.  So  that  Musky  Mag 
feared  alike  to  stay  at  home  and  to  go  abroad ; 
longed  *,o  find  Dan,  and  feared  it  as  much ;  wished 
to  aid  him,  yet  equally  dreaded  that  he  should 
come  to  her  or  that  she  should  go  to  him.  And 
there  was  nothing  to  do,  therefore,  but  to  wait  and 
listen  anxiously ;  to  listen  for  voices,  for  foot- 
steps, even  for  creaks  on  the  stairs;  for  a  whistle 
without  that  might  be  a  signal ;  for  an  uproar 
or  a  sudden  hush  that  might  announce  the  com- 
ing of  the  police  into  Blue  Gate ;  even  for  a  whis- 
per or  a  scratching  at  door  or  window  wherewith 
the  fugitive  might  approach,  fearful  lest  the  police 
were  there  before  him.  But  at  evening,  when  the 
place  grew  dark,  and  the  thickest  of  the  gloom 
drew  together,  to  make  a  monstrous  shadow  on 
the  floor,  where  once  she  had  fallen  over  sometliing 
in  the  dark — then  she  went  and  sat  on  the  stair- 
head, watching  and  dozing  and  waking  in  terror. 
So  went  a  day  and  a  night,  and  another  day. 
[  241  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
The  comers   of  the   room  grew  dusk  again,   and 
with  the  afternoon's  late  light  the  table  flung  its 
shadow  on  that  same  place  on  the  floor;  so  that 
she  went  and  moved  it  toward  the  wall. 

As  she  set  it  down  she  started  and  crouched,  for 
now  at  last  there  was  a  step  on  the  stair — an  un- 
familiar step.  A  woman's,  it  would  seem,  and 
stealthy.  Musky  Mag  held  by  the  table,  and 
waited. 

The  steps  ceased  at  the  landing,  and  there  was 
a  pause.  Then,  with  no  warning  knock,  the  door 
was  pushed  open,  and  a  head  was  thrust  in,  cov- 
ered by  an  old  plaid  shawl;  a  glance  about  the 
room,  and  the  rest  of  the  figure  followed,  closing 
the  door  behind  it;  and,  the  shawl  being  flung 
back  from  over  the  bonnet,  there  stood  Mrs. 
Grimes,  rusty  and  bony,  slack-faced  and  sour. 

Mrs.  Grimes  screwed  her  red  nose  at  the  woman 
before  her,  jerked  up  her  crushed  bonnet,  and 
plucked  her  rusty  skirt  across  her  knees  with  the 
proper  virtuous  twitch.  Then  said  Mrs.  Grimes: 
"  Where's  my  brother  Dan .''  " 

For  a  moment  Musky  Mag  disbelieved  eyes  and 
ears   together.      The   visit   itself,   even   more   than 
[  242  J 


IN  B  L  U  E  GATE 
the  question,  amazed  and  bewildered  her.  She  had 
been  prepared  for  any  visitor  but  this.  For  Mrs. 
Grimes's  relationship  to  Dan  Ogle  was  a  thing 
that  exemplary  lady  made  as  close  a  secret  as  she 
could,  as  in  truth  was  very  natural.  She  valued 
herself  on  her  respectability ;  she  was  the  widow 
of  a  decent  lighterman,  of  a  decent  lightering  and 
wharf-working  family,  and  she  called  herself 
"housekeeper"  (though  she  might  be  scarce  more 
than  charwoman)  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall.  She 
had  never  acknowledged  her  lawless  brother  when 
she  could  in  any  way  avoid  it,  and  she  had,  indeed, 
bargained  that  he  should  not  come  near  her  place 
of  employment,  lest  he  compromise  her;  and  so 
far  from  seeking  him  out  in  his  lodgings,  she  even 
had  a  way  of  failing  to  see  him  in  the  street.  What 
should  she  want  in  Blue  Gate  at  such  a  time  as 
this,  asking  thus  urgently  for  her  brother  Dan.'' 
What  but  the  reward .''  For  an  instant  Mag's  fears 
revived  with  a  jump,  though  even  as  it  came  she 
put  away  the  fancy  that  such  might  be  the  de- 
sign of  any  sister,  however  respectable. 

"  Where's    my    brother    Dan .''  "    repeated    Mrs. 
Grimes,  abruptly. 

[  243  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      W  A  E  E 

"  I — I  don't  know,  mum,"  faltered  Mag,  husky 
and  dull.  "  I  ain't  seen  'im  for — for — some 
time." 

"  O  nonsense.  I  want  'im  particular.  I  got 
somethink  to  tell  'im  important.  If  you  won't  say 
where  'e  is,  go  an'  find  'im." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  mum,  truly.     But  I  can't." 

"  Do  you  mean  'e's  left  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Grimes 
bridled  high,  and  helped  it  with  a  haughty  sniff. 

"  No,  nmm,  not  quite,  in  your  way  o'  speakin', 
I  think,  mum.  But  'e's — 'e's  just  gone  away  for 
a  bit." 

"  IIo.     In  trouble  again,  you  mean,  eh.''  " 

"  O  no  mum,  not  there,"  Mag  answered  readily ; 
for,  with  her,  "  trouble "  was  merely  a  genteel 
name  for  gaol.  "  Not  there — not  for  a  long 
while." 

"Where  then.?" 

"  That's  what  I  dunno,  mum ;  not  at  all." 

Mrs.  Grimes  tightened  her  lips  and  glared; 
plainly  she  believed  none  of  these  denials. 
"  P'rhaps  'e's  wanted,"  she  snapped,  "  an'  keep- 
in'  out  o'  the  way  just  now.      Is  that  it?  " 

This  was  what  no  torture  would  have  made  Mag 
[  244  ] 


IN      BLUE      GATE 

acknowledge;  but,  with  all  her  vehemence  of  de- 
nial, her  discomposure  was  plain  to  see.  "  No, 
mum,  not  that,"  she  declared,  pleadingly.  "  Reely 
'e  ain't,  mum — reely  'e  ain't ;  not  that !  " 

"  Pooh !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grimes,  seating  her- 
self with  a  flop.  "  That's  a  lie,  plain  enough. 
'E's  layin'  up  somewhere,  an'  you  know  it.  What 
harm  d'ye  suppose  I'm  goin'  to  do  'im?  'E  ain't 
robbed  me — leastways  not  lately.  I  got  a  job  for 
'im,  I  tell  you — money  in  'is  pocket.  If  you  won't 
tell  me,  go  an'  tell  'im ;    go  on.     An'  I'll  wait." 

"  It's  Gawd's  truth,  mum,  I  don't  know  where 
'e  is,"  Mag  protested  earnestly.  "  'Ark !  there's 
someone  on  the  stairs !  They'll  'ear.  Go  away 
mum,  do.  I'll  try  an'  find  'im  an'  tell  'im — s'elp 
me  I  will !     Go  away — they're  comin' !  " 

In  truth  the  footsteps  had  reached  the  stair-top, 
and  now,  with  a  thump,  the  door  was  thrust  open, 
and  Blind  George  appeared,  his  fiddle  under  his 
arm,  his  stick  sweeping  before  him,  and  his  white 
eye  rolling  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Hullo !  "  he  sang  out.  "  Lad}^  visitors !  Or  is 
it  on'y  one.''  'Tain't  polite  to  tell  the  lady  to  go 
away,  Mag!  Good  afternoon,  mum,  good  after- 
[  245  I 


THE      HOLE      IN      T  H  E      \V  A  E  E 

noon ! "  He  nodded  and  grinned  at  upper  va- 
cancy, as  one  might  at  a  descending  angel;  Mrs. 
Grimes,  meanwhile,  close  at  his  elbow,  preparing 
to  get  away  as  soon  as  he  was  clear  past  her.  For 
Blind  George's  keenness  of  hearing  was  well- 
known,  and  she  had  no  mind  he  should  guess  her 
identity. 

"  Good  afternoon,  mum !  "  the  blind  man  re- 
peated. "  Havin'  tea.-^"  He  advanced  another 
step,  and  extended  his  stick.  "  What !  "  he  added, 
suddenly  turning.  "What!  Table  gone.''  What's 
this.'*     Doin'  a  guy.''     Clearin'  out.^*  " 

"  No,  George,"  Mag  answered.  "  I  only  moved 
the  table  over  to  the  wall.  'Ere  it  is — come  an' 
feel  it."  She  made  a  quick  gesture  over  her  shoul- 
der, and  Mrs.  Grimes  hurried  out  on  tiptoe. 

But  at  the  first  movement  Blind  George  turned 
sharply.  "  There  she  goes,"  he  said,  making  for 
the  door.  "  She  don't  like  me.  Timid  little  dar- 
lin' !  Hullo,  my  dear !  "  he  roared  down  the  stairs. 
"  Hullo !  you  never  give  me  a  kiss !  I  know  you ! 
Won't  3'ou  say  good-bye?  " 

He  waited  a  moment,  listening  intently;  but 
Mrs.  Grimes  scuttled  into  the  passage  below  with- 
f  246  1 


IN  BLUE  GATE 
out  a  word,  and  instantly  Blind  George  supple- 
mented his  endearments  with  a  burst  of  foul  abuse, 
and  listened  again.  This  expedient  succeeded  no 
better  than  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Grimes  was  gone 
without  a  sound  that  might  betray  her  identity. 

Blind  George  shut  the  door.  "  Who  was  that.''  " 
he  asked. 

"  O,  nobody  partic'lar,"  Mag  answered  with  an 
assumption  of  indifference.  "  On'y  a  woman  I 
know — name  o'  Jane.     What  d'you  want.''  " 

"  Ah,  now  you're  come  to  it."  Blind  George 
put  his  fiddle  and  bow  on  the  table  and  groped  for 
a  chair.  "  Fust,"  he  went  on,  "  is  there  anybody 
else  as  can  'car.-^  Eh.''  Cracks  or  crannies  or  peep- 
holes, eh.''  'Cause  I  come  as  a  pal,  to  talk  private 
business,  I  do." 

"  It's  all  right,  George ;  nobody  can  hear. 
What  is  it.?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  blind  man,  catching  her  tight 
by  the  arm,  and  leaning  forward  to  whisper ;  "  it's 
Dan,  that's  what  it  is.     It's  Dan !  " 

She  was  conscious  of  a  catching  of  the  breath 
and  a  thump  of  the  heart ;  and  Blind  George  knew 
it  too,  for  he  felt  it  through  the  arm. 
f  247  I 


^THE      HOLE      IN     THE      WALE 

"  It's  Dan,"  he  repeated.  "  So  now  you  know 
if  it's  what  you'd  hke  listened  to." 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

"  Ah.  Well,  fust  thing,  all  bein'  snug,  'ere's 
five  bob ;  catch  'old."  He  slid  his  right  hand  down 
to  her  wrist,  and  with  his  left  pressed  the  money 
into  hers.  "  All  right,  don't  be  frightened  of  it, 
it  won't  'urt  ye !  Lord,  I  bet  Dan  'ud  do  the  same 
for  me  if  I  wanted  it,  though  'e  is  a  bit  rough 
sometimes.  I  ain't  rich,  but  I  got  a  few  bob  by 
me;  an'  if  a  pal  ain't  to  'ave  'em,  who  is.-^  Eh.^* 
Who  is.?" 

He  grinned  under  the  white  eye  so  ghastly  a 
counterfeit  of  friendly  good-will  that  the  woman 
shrank,  and  pulled  at  the  wrist  he  held. 

"  Lord  love  ye,"  he  went  on,  holding  tight  to 
tht;  wrist,  "  I  ain't  the  bloke  to  round  on  a  pal  as 
is  under  a  cloud.  See  what  I  might  'a'  done,  if 
I'd  'a'  wanted.  I  might  'a'  gone  an'  let  out  all 
sorts  o'  things,  as  you  know  very  well  yerself,  at 
the  inquest — both  the  inquests.  But  did  I.-*  Not 
me.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  That  ain't  my  way.  No; 
I  lay  low,  an'  said  nothing.  What  arter  that.? 
Why  there's  fifty  quid  reward  offered,  fifty  quid 
[  248  ] 


IN      BLUE      GATE 
— a  fortune  to  a  pore  bloke  like  me.     An'  all  I 
got  to  do  is  to  go  an'  say  '  Dan  Ogle  '  to  earn 
it — them  two  words  an'  no  more.     Ain't  that  the 
truth?     D'y'  'ear,  ain't  that  the  truth?  " 

He  tugged  at  her  wrist  to  extort  an  answer, 
and  the  woman's  face  was  drawn  with  fear.  But 
she  made  a  shift  to  say,  with  elaborate  careless- 
ness, "  Reward?  What  reward,  George?  I  dunno 
nothin'  about  it." 

"  Gr-r-r!  "  he  growled,  pushing  the  wrist  back, 
but  gripping  it  still.  "  That  ain't  'an'some,  not  to 
a  pal  it  ain't;  not  to  a  faithful  pal  as  comes  to 
do  y'  a  good  turn.  You  know  all  about  it  well 
enough ;  an'  you  needn't  think  as  I  don't  know 
too.  Blind,  ain't  I?  Blind  from  a  kid,  but  not 
a  fool !  You  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time — 
not  a  fool.  Look  'ere!" — with  another  jerk  at 
the  woman's  arm- — "  look  'ere.  The  last  time  I 
was  in  this  'ere  room  there  was  me  an'  you  an' 
Dan  an'  two  men  as  is  dead  now,  an'  post-mor- 
talled  an'  inquested  an'  buried,  wasn't  there? 
Well,  Dan  chucked  me  out.  I  ain't  bearin'  no 
malice  for  that,  mind  ye — ain't  I  just  give  ye  five 
bob,  an'  ain't  I  come  to  do  ye  a  turn?  I  was 
[249] 


THE     HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 
chucked  out,  but  ye  don't   s'pose  I  dunno  what 
'appened  arter  I  was  gone,  do  ye?     Eh?  " 

The  room  was  grown  darker,  and  though  the 
table  was  moved,  the  shadow  on  the  floor  took  its 
old  place,  and  took  its  old  shape,  and  grew;  but 
it  was  no  more  abhorrent  than  the  shadowy  face 
with  its  sightless  white  eye  close  before  hers,  and 
the  hand  that  held  her  wrist,  and  by  it  seemed  to 
feel  the  pulse  of  her  very  mind.  She  struggled  to 
her  feet. 

"  Let  go  my  wrist,"  she  said.  "  I'll  light  a  can- 
dle.    You  can  go  on." 

"  Don't  light  no  candle  on  my  account,"  he  said, 
chuckling,  as  he  let  her  hand  drop.  "  It's  a  thing 
I  never  treat  myself  to.  There's  parties  as  is 
afraid  o'  the  dark,  they  tell  me — I'm  used  to  it." 

She  lit  the  candle,  and  set  it  where  it  lighted 
best  the  place  of  the  shadow.  Then  she  returned 
and  stood  by  the  chair  she  had  been  sitting  in. 
"  Go  on,"  she  said  again.  "  What's  this  good  turn 
you  want  to  do  me?  " 

"Ah,"    he    replied,    "that's    the    pint!"     He 
caught  her  wrist  again  with  a  sudden  snatch,  and 
drew  her  forward.     "  Sit  down,  my  gal,  sit  down, 
[  250  ] 


IN  BLUE  GATE 
an'  I'll  tell  ye  comfortable.  What  was  I  a-sayin'? 
O,  what  'appened  arter  I  was  gone;  yes.  Well, 
that  there  visitor  was  fliniped  clean,  clean  as  a 
whistle ;  but  fust — eh  ? — fust !  "  Blind  George 
snapped  his  jaws,  and  made  a  quick  blow  in  the  air 
with  his  stick.  "  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  Ah,  well,  never 
mind!  But  now  I'll  tell  you  what  the  job  fetched. 
Eight  'undred  an'  odd  quid  in  a  leather  pocket- 
book,  an'  a  silver  watch!  Eh.''  I  thought  that 
'ud  make  ye  jump.  Blind,  ain't  I.-^  Blind  from 
a  kid, — but  not  a  fool ! 

"  Well  now,"  he  proceeded,  "  so  far  all  right. 
If  I  can  tell  ye  that,  I  can  pretty  well  tell  ye  all 
the  rest,  can't  I?  All  about  Bob  Kipps  goin'  off 
to  sell  the  notes,  an'  Dan  watchin'  'im,  bein'  suspi- 
cious, an'  catchin'  'im  makin'  a  bolt  for  the  river, 
an' — eh  ?  "  He  raised  the  stick  in  his  left  hand 
again,  but  now  point  forward,  with  a  little  stab 
toward  her  breast.  "Eh.?  Eh.?  Like  that,  eh? 
All  right — don't  be  frightened,  I'm  a  pal,  I  am. 
It  served  that  cove  right,  I  say,  playin'  a  trick  on 
a  pal.  I  don't  play  a  trick  on  a  pal.  I  come  'ere 
to  do  'im  a  good  turn,  I  do.  Don't  1? — Well, 
Dan  got  away,  an'  good  luck  to  'im.  'E  got  away, 
[251  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 
clear  over  the  river,  with  the  eight  'undred  quid  in 
the  leather  pocket-book.     An'  now  'e's  a-layin'  low 
an'  snug,  an'  more  good  luck  to  'im,  says  I,  bein' 
a  pal.     Ain't  that  right .?  " 

Mag  shuffled  uneasily.  "  Go  on,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  think  you  know  such  a  lot.  You  ain't  come  to 
that  good  turn  yet,  that  you  talk  so  much  about." 

"  Right !  Now  I'll  come  to  it.  Now  you  know 
I  know  as  much  as  anybody— i-more  'n  anybody 
'cept  Dan,  p'rhaps  a  bit  more'n  what  you  know 
yourself ;  an'  I  kep'  it  quiet  when  I  might  'a'  made 
my  fortune  out  of  it;  kep'  it  quiet,  bein'  a  faith- 
ful pal.  An'  bein'  a  faithful  pal  an'  all  I  come 
'ere  with  five  bob  for  ye,  bein'  all  I  can  afford,  'cos 
I  know  you're  a  bit  short,  though  Dan's  got  plenty 
— got  a  fortune.  Why  should  you  be  short,  an' 
Dan  got  a  fortune?  On'y  'cos  you  want  a  pal  as 
you  can  trust,  like  me!  That's  all.  'E  can't  come 
to  you  'cos  o'  showin'  'isself.  You  can't  go  to  'im 
'cos  o'  bein'  watched  an'  follered.  So  I  come  to  do 
ye  both  a  good  turn  goin'  between,  one  to  another. 
Where  is  'e  ?  " 

Mag  was  in  some  way  reassured.      She   feared 
and   distrusted   Blind    George,  and   she   was    con- 
[  252  ] 


IN      BLUE     GATE 

founded  to  learn  how  much  he  knew :  but  at  least 
he  was  still  ignorant  of  the  essential  thing.  So  she 
said,  "  Knowin'  so  much  more'n  me,  I  wonder  you 
dunno  that  too.     Any'ow  /  don't." 

"  What.''     You  dunno?     Dunno  where  'e  is?  " 

"  No,  I  don't ;  no  more'n  you." 

"  O  that's  all  right — all  right  for  anybody  else ; 
but  not  for  a  pal  like  me — not  for  a  pal  as  is  doin' 
y'  a  good  turn.  Besides,  it  ain't  you  on'y ;  it's  'im. 
'Ow'll  'e  get  on  with  the  stuff?  'E  won't  be  able  to 
change  it,  an'  'e'll  be  as  short  as  you,  an'  p'rhaps 
get  smugged  with  it  on  'im.  That  'ud  never  do; 
an'  I  can  get  it  changed.  What  part  o'  Rother- 
hithe  is  it,  eh?  I  can  easy  find  'im.  Is  it  Dock- 
head?" 

"  There  or  anywhere,  for  all  I  know.  I  tell  ye, 
George,  I  dunno  no  more'n  you.  Let  go  njy  arm, 
go  on."  But  he  gave  it  another  pull — an  angry 
one.  "What?  What?"  he  cried.  "If  Dan 
knowed  as  you  was  keepin'  'is  ol'  pal  George  from 
doin'  'im  a  good  turn,  what  'ud  'e  do,  eh?  'E'd 
give  it  you,  my  beauty,  wouldn't  'e?  Eh?  Eh?  " 
He  twisted  the  arm,  ground  his  teeth,  and  raised 
his  stick  menacingly. 

[  253  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

But  this  was  a  little  too  much.  He  was  a  man, 
and  stronger,  but  at  any  rate  he  was  blind.  She 
rose  and  struggled  to  twist  her  arm  from  his  grasp. 
"  If  you  don't  put  down  that  stick,  George,"  she 
said,  "'  if  you  don't  put  it  down  an'  let  go  my  arm, 
I'll  give  it  you  same  as  Bob  Kipps  got  it — s'elp  me 
I  will !  I'll  give  you  the  chive — I  will !  Don't  you 
make  me  dcsprit !  " 

He  let  go  the  wrist  and  laughed.  "  Whoa, 
beauty!  "  he  cried ^  "  don't  make  a  rumpus  with  a 
faithful  pal !  If  you  won't  tell  me  I  s'pose  you 
won't,  bein'  a  woman ;  whether  it's  bad  for  Dan  or 
not,  eh.?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't,  George ;  I  swear  solemn  I 
dunno  no  more'n  you — p'rhaps  not  so  much.  'E 
ain't  bin  near  nor  sent  nor  nothing,  since — since 
then.  That's  gospel  truth.  If  I  do  'ear  from  'im 
I'll— well  then  I'll  see." 

"Will  ye  tell  'im,  then?  'Ere,  tell  'im  this. 
Tell  'im  he  mustn't  go  tryin'  to  sell  them  notes,  or 
'e'll  be  smugged.  Tell  'im  I  can  put  'im  in  the 
way  'o  gettin'  money  for  'em — 'ard  quids,  an' 
plenty  on  'em.  Tell  'im  that,  will  ye.?  Tell  'im 
I'm  a  faithful  pal,  an'  nobody  can't  do  it  but  me. 
[254  J 


IN      BLUE      GATE 
I   know   things   you    don't   know    about,   nor    'im 
neither.     Tell  'im  to-night.     Will  ye  tell  'im  to- 
night.? " 

"  'Ow  can  I  tell  'im  to-night.?  I'll  tell  'im  right 
enough  when  I  see  'im.  I  s'pose  you  want  to  make 
your  bit  out  of  it,  pal  or  not." 

"  There  y'are !  "  he  answered  quickly.  "  There 
y'are !  If  you  won't  believe  in  a  pal,  look  at  that ! 
If  I  make  a  fair  deal,  man  to  man,  with  them  notes, 
an'  get  money  for  'em  instead  o'  smuggin' — quids 
instead  o'  quod — I'll  'ave  my  proper  reg'lars, 
won't  1?  An'  proper  reg'lars  on  all  that,  paid 
square,  'ud  be  more'n  I  could  make  playin'  the 
snitch,  if  Dan'll  be  open  to  reason.  See?  You 
won't  forget,  eh?  "  he  took  her  arm  again  eagerly, 
above  the  elbow.  "  Know  what  to  say,  don't  ye? 
Best  for  all  of  us.  'E  mustn't  show  them  notes  to 
a  soul,  till  'e  sees  me.  Fm  'is  pal.  I  got  the  little 
tip  'ow  to  do  it  proper — see?  Now  you  know. 
Gimme  my  fiddle.  'Ere  we  are.  Where's  the  door? 
All  right — don't  forget !  " 

Blind  George  clumped  down  the  black  stair,  and 
so  reached  the  street  of  Blue  Gate.     At  the  door 
he  paused,  listening  till  he  was  satisfied  of  Musky 
[  255  J 


THE      HOLE      IN      THEWALE 

i\Iag's   movements   above;   then   he  walked   a   few 
yards  along  the  dark  street,  and  stopped. 

From  a  black  archway  across  the  street  a  man 
came  skulking  out,  and  over  the  roadway  to  Blind 
George's  side.  It  was  Viney.  "  Well.'^  "  he  asked 
eagerly,  "  What's  your  luck.''  " 

Blind  George  swore  vehemently,  but  quietly. 
"  Precious  little,"  he  answered.  "  She  dunno  where 
'e  is.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  kid,  but  it  ain't. 
She  ain't  'card,  an'  she  dunno.  I  couldn't  catch 
hold  o'  the  other  woman,  an'  she  got  away  an'  never 
spoke.  You  see  'er  again  when  she  came  out,  didn't 
ye.''    Know  'er.''  " 

"  Not  me — she  kept  her  shawl  tighter  about  her 
head  than  ever.  An'  if  she  hadn't  it  ain't  likely 
I'd  know  her.  What  now.f*  Stand  watch  again? 
I'm  sick  of  it." 

"  So  am  I,  but  it's  for  good  pay,  if  it  comes  off. 
Five  minutes  might  do  it.  You  get  back,  an'  wait 
in  case  I  tip  the  whistle." 

Viney  crept  growling  back  to  his  arch,  and  Blind 
George  went  and  listened  at  Mag's  front  door  for 
a  few  moments  more.     Then  he  turned  into  the  one 
next  it,  and  there  waited,  invisible,  listening  still. 
[256] 


IN      BLUE      GATE 

Five  minutes  went,  and  did  not  do  it,  and  ten 
minutes  went,  and  five  times  ten.  Blue  Gate  lay 
darkling  in  evening,  and  foul  shadows  moved  about 
it.  From  one  den  and  another  came  a  drawl  and 
a  yaup  of  drunken  singing;  a  fog  from  the  river 
dulled  the  lights  at  the  Highway  end,  and  slowly 
crept  up  the  narrow  way.  It  was  near  an  hour 
since  Viney  and  Blind  George  had  parted,  when 
there  grew  visible,  coming  through  the  mist  from 
the  Highway,  the  uncertain  figure  of  a  stranger: 
drifting  dubiously  from  door  to  door,  staring  in 
at  one  after  another,  and  wandering  out  toward 
the  gutter  to  peer  ahead  in  the  gloom. 

Blind  George  could  hear,  as  well  as  another 
could  see,  that  here  was  a  stranger' in  doubt,  seek- 
ing somebody  or  some  house.  Soon  the  man,  mid- 
dle-sized, elderl}^,  a  trifle  bent,  and  all  dusty  with 
lime,  came  in  turn  to  the  door  where  he  stood ;  and 
at  once  Blind  George  stepped  full  against  him, 
with  an  exclamation  and  many  excuses. 

"  Beg  pardon,  guv'nor !  Pore  blind  chap  !  'Ope 
I  didn't  'urt  ye !  Was  ye  wantin'  anybody  in  this 
'ouse  ?  " 

The  limy  man  looked  ahead,  and  reckoned  the 
[257  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

few  remaining  doors  to  the  end  of  Blue  Gate. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  fancy  it's  'ere  or  next  door. 
D'ye  know  a  woman  o'  the  name  o'  Mag — Mag 
Flynn?" 

"  I'm  yer  bloke,  guv'nor.  Know  'er?  Rather. 
Up  'ere,  I'll  show  ye.  Lord  love  ye,  she's  an  old 
friend  o'  mine.  Come  on.  ...  I  should  say 
you'd  be  in  the  lime  trade,  guv'nor,  wouldn't  you.'' 
I  smelt  it  pretty  strong,  an'  I'll  never  forget 
the  smell  o'  lime.  Why,  says  you?  Why,  'cos  o' 
losin'  my  blessed  sight  with  lime,  when  I  was  a  in- 
nocent kid.  Fell  on  a  slackin'-bed,  guv'nor,  an' 
blinded  me  blessed  self;  so  I  won't  forget  the  smell 
o'  lime  easy.  Ain't  you  in  the  trade,  now?  Ain't 
I  right?  "  He  stopped  midway  on  the  stairs  to  re- 
peat the  question.  "  Ain't  I  right  ?  Is  it  yer  own 
business  or  a  firm?  " 

"  Ah  well,  I  do  'ave  to  do  with  lime  a  good  bit," 
said  the  stranger,  evasively.  "  But  go  on,  or  else 
let  me  come  past." 

Blind  George  turned,  and  reaching  the  landing, 

thumped  his  stick  on  the  door  and  pushed  it  open. 

"  'Ere  y'are,"  he  sang  out.     "  'Ere's  a  gentleman 

come  to  see  ye,  as  I  found  an'  showed  the  way  to. 

[  258  ] 


IN      BLUE      GATE 
Lord  love  ye,  'e'd  never  'a'  found  ye  if  it  wasn't 
for  me.     But  I'm  a  old  pal,  ain't  I?     A  faithful 
old  pal!" 

He  swung  his  stick  till  he  found  a  chair,  and 
straightway  sat  in  it,  like  an  invited  guest.  "  Lord 
love  ye,  yes,"  he  continued,  rolling  his  eye  and  put- 
ting his  fiddle  across  his  knees ;  "  one  o'  the  oldest 
pals  she's  got,  or  'im  either." 

The  new  comer  looked  in  a  puzzled  way  from 
Blind  George  to  the  woman,  and  back  again. 
"  It's  private  business  I  come  about,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

"  All  right,  guv'nor,"  shouted  Blind  George, 
heartily.  "  Out  with  it !  We're  all  pals  'ere !  Old 
pals!" 

"  You  ain't  my  old  pal,  anyhow,"  the  limj^  man 
observed.  "  An'  if  the  room's  yours,  we'll  go  an' 
talk  somewheres  else." 

"  Get  out,  George,  go  along,"  said  Mag,  with 
some  asperity,  but  more  anxiety.  "  You  clear  out, 
go  on." 

"  O,  all  right,  if  you're  goin'  to  be  unsociable," 
said  the  fiddler,  rising.     "  Damme,  I  don't  want  to 
stay — not  me.    I  was  on'y  doin'  the  friendly,  that's 
[259] 


THE     HOLE      IN     THE     WAEL 
all ;  bein'  a  old  pal.    But  I'm  off  all  right — I'm  off. 
So  long !  " 

He  hugged  his  fiddle  once  more,  and  clumped 
down  into  the  street.  He  tapped  with  his  stick  till 
he  struck  the  curb,  and  then  crossed  the  muddy 
roadwa}'^;  while  Viney  emerged  again  from  the 
dark  arch  to  meet  him. 

"  All  right,"  said  Blind  George,  whispering 
huskily.  "  It's  business  now,  I  think — business. 
You  come  on  now.  You'll  'ave  to  foller  'em  if  they 
come  out  together.  If  they  don't — well  you  must 
look  arter  the  one  as  does." 


260  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
AVALL 

C|)apter  Ctsl)teen 


ON    THE    COP 


W  HEN  the  limj  man  left  Blue  Gate  he  went, 
first,  to  the  Plole  in  the  Wall,  there  to  make  to  Cap- 
tain Kemp  some  small  report  on  the  wharf  by  the 
Lea.  This  did  not  keep  him  long,  and  soon  he 
was  on  his  journey  home  to  the  wharf  itself,  by 
way  of  the  crooked  lanes  and  the  Commercial 
Road. 

He  had  left  Blue  Gate  an  hour  and  more  when 
Musky  Mag  emerged  from  her  black  stairway, 
peering  fearfully  about  the  street  ere  she  ventured 
her  foot  over  the  step.  So  she  stood  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  then,  as  one  chancing  a  great  risk, 
stepped  boldly  on  the  pavement,  and,  turning  her 
back  to  the  Highway,  walked  toward  Back  Lane. 
This  was  the  nearer  end  of  Blue  Gate,  and,  the 
corner  turned,  she  stopped  short,  and  peeped  back. 
Satisfied  that  she  had  no  follower,  she  crossed  Back 
Lane,  and  taking  every  corner,  as  she  came  to  it, 
with  a  like  precaution,  tln-eaded  the  maze  of  small, 
ill-lighted  streets  that  lay  in  the  angle  between  the 
great  Rope  Walk  and  Commercial  Road.  This 
[263] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
wide  road  she  crossed,  and  then  entered  the  dark 
streets  beyond,  in  rear  of  the  George  Tavern;  and 
so,  keeping  to  obscure  parallel  ways,  sometimes 
emerging  into  the  glare  of  the  main  road,  more 
commonly  slinking  in  its  darker  purlieus,  but  never 
out  of  touch  with  it,  she  travelled  east;  following 
in  the  main  the  later  course  of  the  limy  man,  who 
had  left  Blue  Gate  by  its  opposite  end. 

The  fog,  that  had  dulled  the  lights  in  Ratcliff 
Highway,  met  her  again  near  Limehouse  Basin ; 
but,  ere  she  reached  the  church,  she  )i^as  clear  of 
it  once  more.  Beyond,  the  shops  grew  few,  and 
the  lights  fewer.  For  a  little  while  decent  houses 
lined  the  way :  the  houses  of  those  last  merchants 
who  had  no  shame  to  live  near  the  docks  and  the 
works  that  brought  their  money.  At  last,  amid 
a  cluster  of  taverns  and  shops  that  were  all  for 
the  sea  and  them  that  lived  on  it,  the  East  India 
Dock  gates  stood  dim  and  tall,  flanked  by  vast 
raking  walls,  so  that  one  might  suppose  a  Chinese 
city  to  seethe  within.  And  away  to  the  left,  the 
dark  road  that  the  wall  overshadowed  was  lined  on 
the  other  side  by  hedge  and  ditch,  with  meadows 
and  fields  beyond,  that  were  now  no  more  than  a 
[  264  J 


ON     THE     COP 

vast  murky  gulf;  so  that  no  stranger  peering  over 
the  hedge  could  have  guessed  aright  if  he  looked 
on  land  or  on  water,  or  on  mere  black  vacancy. 

Here  the  woman  made  a  last  twist :  turning  down 
a  side  street,  and  coming  to  a  moment's  stand  in  an 
archway.  This  done,  she  passed  through  the  arch 
into  a  path  before  a  row  of  ill-kept  cottages ;  and 
so  gained  the  marshy  field  behind  the  Accident 
Hospital,  the  beginning  of  the  waste  called  The 
Cop. 

Here  the  great  blackness  was  before  her  and 
about  her,  and  she  stumbled  and  laboured  on  the 
invisible  ground,  groping  for  pits  and  ditches,  and 
standing  breathless  again  and  again  to  listen.  The 
way  was  so  hard  as  to  seem  longer  than  it  was,  and 
in  the  darkness  she  must  needs  surmount  obstacles 
that  in  daylight  she  would  have  turned.  Often  a 
ditch  barred  her  way ;  and  when,  after  long  search, 
a  means  of  crossing  was  found,  it  was  commonly 
a  plank  to  be  traversed  on  hands  and  knees.  There 
were  stagnant  pools,  too,  into  which  she  walked 
more  than  once;  and  twice  she  suffered  a  greater 
shock  of  terror:  first  at  a  scurry  of  rats,  and  later 
at  quick  footsteps  following  in  the  sodden  turf — 
[265] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

the  footsteps,  after  all,  of  nothing  more  terrible 
than  a  horse  of  inquiring  disposition,  out  at 
grass. 

So  she  went  for  what  seemed  miles:  though 
there  was  little  more  than  half  a  mile  in  a  line  from 
where  she  had  left  the  lights  to  where  at  last  she 
came  upon  a  rough  road,  seamed  with  deep  ruts, 
and  made  visible  by  many  whitish  blotches  where 
lime  had  fallen,  and  had  there  been  ground  into 
the  surface.  To  the  left  this  road  stretched  away 
toward  the  lights  of  Bromley  and  Bow  Common, 
and  to  the  right  it  rose  by  an  easy  slope  over  the 
river  wall  skirting  the  Lea,  and  there  ended  at 
Kemp's  Wharf. 

Not  a  creature  was  on  the  road,  and  no  sound 
came  from  the  black  space  behind  her.  With  a 
breath  of  relief  she  set  foot  on  the  firmer  ground, 
and  hurried  up  the  slope.  From  the  top  of  the 
bank  she  could  see  Kemp's  Wharf  just  below,  with 
two  dusty  lighters  moored  in  the  dull  river;  and 
beyond  ♦  the  river  the  measureless,  dim  Abbey 
Marsh.  Nearer,  among  the  sheds,  a  dog  barked 
angrily  at  the  sound  of  strange  feet. 

A  bright  light  came  from  the  window  of  the  lit- 
[266] 


ON  THE  COP 
tie  house  that  made  office  and  dwelhng  for  the 
wharf -keeper,  and  something  less  of  the  same  light 
from  the  open  door;  for  there  the  limy  man  stood 
waiting,  leaning  on  the  door-post,  and  smoking  his 
pipe. 

He  grunted  a  greeting  as  Mag  came  down  the 
bank.  "  Bit  late,"  he  said.  "  But  it  ain't  easy  over 
the  Cop  for  a  stranger." 

"  Where  ? "  the  woman  whispered  eagerly. 
"Where  is  he?" 

The  limy  man  took  three  silent  pulls  at  his  pipe. 
Then  he  took  it  from  his  mouth  with  some  delibera- 
tion, and  said:  "  Remember  what  I  said?  I  don't 
want  'im  'ere.  I  dunno  what  'e's  done,  an'  don't 
want ;  but  if  'e  likes  to  come  'idin'  about,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  play  the  informer.  I  dunno  why  I  should 
promise  as  much  as  that,  just  'cos  my  brother  mar- 
ried 'is  sister.  She  ain't  done  me  no  credit,  from 
what  I  'ear  now.  Though  she  'ad  a  good  master, 
as  I  can  swear ;  'cos  'e's  mine  too." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  was  all  Mag's  answer,  again  in 
an  anxious  whisper. 

"Understand?"  the  limy  man  went  on.     "I'm 
about  done  with  the  pair  on  'em  now,  but  I  ain't 
[267] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WAEE 
goin'  to  inform.  'E  come  'ere  a  day  or  two  back 
an'  claimed  shelter;  an'  seein'  as  I  was  goin'  up 
to  Wappin'  to-night,  'e  wanted  me  to  tell  you 
where  'e  was.  Well,  I've  done  that,  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  to  do  no  more;  see.?  'E  ain't  none  o'  mine, 
an'  I  won't  'ave  part  nor  parcel  with  'im,  nor  any 
of  ye.  I  keep  myself  decent,  I  do.  I  sha'n't  say 
'e's  'ere  an'  I  sha'n't  say  'e  ain't;  an'  the  sooner  'e 
goes  the  better  'e'll  please  me.     See.'*  " 

"  Yes  Mr.  Grimes,  sir ;  but  tell  me  where  he  is ! " 

The  limy  man  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
pointed  with  a  comprehensive  sweep  of  the  stem  at 
the  sheds  round  about.  "  You  can  go  an'  look  in 
any  o'  them  places  as  ain't  locked,"  he  said  off- 
handedly. "  The  dog's  chained  up.  Try  the  end 
one  fust." 

Grimes  the  wharfinger  resumed  his  pipe,  and 
Mag  scuffled  off  to  where  the  light  from  the  win- 
dow fell  on  the  white  angle  of  a  small  wooden  shel- 
ter. The  place  was  dark  within,  dusted  about  with 
lime,  and  its  door  stood  inward.  She  stopped  and 
peered. 

"  All  right,"  growled  Dan  Ogle  from  the  midst 
of  the  dark.    "  Can't  ye  see  me  now  y'  'ave  come.''  " 
[268  ] 


ON      THE      COP 

And  he  thrust  his  thin  face  and  big  shoulders  out 
through  the  opening. 

"  O,  Dan !  "  the  woman  cried,  putting  out  her 
hands  as  though  she  would  take  him  by  the  neck, 
but  feared  lepulse.  "  O,  Dan !  Thank  Gawd 
you're  safe,  Dan !  I  bin  dyin'  o'  fear  for  you, 
Dan !  " 

"  G-r-r-r !  "  he  snorted.  "  Stow  that !  What  I 
want's  money.    Got  any?  " 


269] 


f-r 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cijapter  JBttneteen 


ON    THE    COP 

Continued 


JLT  was  at  a  bend  of  the  river-wall  by  the  Lea,  in 
sight  of  Kemp's  Wharf,  that  Dan  Ogle  and  his 
sister  met  at  last.  Dan  had  about  as  much  regard 
for  her  as  she  had  for  him,  and  the  total  made 
something  a  long  way  short  of  affection.  But  com- 
mon interests  brought  them  together.  Mrs.  Grimes 
had  told  Mag  that  she  knew  of  something  that 
would  put  money  in  Dan's  pocket;  and,  as  money 
was  just  what  Dan  wanted  in  his  pocket,  he  was 
ready  to  hear  what  his  sister  had  to  tell:  more  es- 
pecially as  it  seemed  plain  that  she  was  unaware — 
exactly — of  the  difficulty  that  had  sent  him  into 
hiding. 

So,  instructed  by  Mag,  she  came  to  the  Cop  on 
a  windy  morning,  where,  from  the  top  of  the  river- 
wall,  one  might  look  east  over  the  Abbey  Marsh, 
and  see  an  unresting  and  unceasing  press  of  grey 
and  mottled  cloud  hurrying  up  from  the  flat  hori- 
zon to  pass  overhead,  and  vanish  in  the  smoke  of 
London  to  the  West.  Mrs.  Grimes  avoided  the 
wharf;  for  she  saw  no  reason  why  her  brother-in- 
[  273  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
law,  her  late  employer's   faithful  servant,  should 
witness  her  errand.     She  climbed  the  river-wall  at 
a  place  where  it  neared  the  road  at  its  Bromley  end, 
and  thence  she  walked  along  the  bank-top. 

Arrived  where  it  made  a  sharp  bend,  she  de- 
scended a  little  way  on  the  side  next  the  river,  and 
there  waited.  Dan,  on  the  look-out  from  his  shed, 
spied  her  be-ribboned  bonnet  from  afar,  and  went 
quietly  and  hastily  under  shelter  of  the  river-wall 
toward  where  she  stood.  Coming  below  her  on  the 
tow  path,  he  climbed  the  bank,  and  brother  and 
sister  stood  face  to  face;  unashamed  ruffianism 
looking  shabby  respectability  in  the  eyes. 

"  Umph,"  growled  Dan.  "  So  'ere  y'are,  my 
lady." 

"  Yes,"  the  woman  answered,  "  'ere  I  am ;  an' 
there  you  are — a  nice  respectable  sort  of  party  for 
a  brother !  " 

"  Ah,  ain't  1?  If  I  was  as  respectable  as  my  sis- 
ter, I  might  get  a  job  up  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall, 
mightn't  I?  'Specially  as  I  'ear  as  there's  a  va- 
cancy through  somebody  gettin'  the  sack  over  a 
cash-box !  " 

Mrs.  Grimes  glared  and  snapped.   "  I  s'pose  you 
[  27-il 


ON     THE      COP 

got  that  from  'im,"  she  said,  jerking  her  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  wharf.  "  Well,  I  ain't  come 
'ere  to  call  names — I  come  about  that  same  cash- 
box;  at  any  rate  I  come  about  what's  in  it.  .  .  . 
Dan,  there's  a  pile  o'  bank  notes  in  that  box,  that 
don't  belong  to  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp  no  more'n  they 
belong  to  you  or  me!  Nor  as  much,  p'rhaps,  if 
you'll  put  up  a  good  wa}'  o'  gettin'  at  'cm !  " 

"  You  put  up  a  way  as  wasn't  a  good  un,  seem- 
in'ly,"  said  Dan.  "  'Ow  d'ye  mean  they  don't  be- 
long to  Kemp.''  " 

"  There  was  a  murder  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall ; 
a  week  ago." 

"  Eh.''  "  Dan's  jaw  shut  with  a  snap,  and  his 
eye  was  full  of  sharp  inquiry. 

"  A  man  was  stabbed  against  the  bar-parlour 
door,  an'  the  one  as  did  it  got  away  over  the  river. 
One  o'  the  two  dropped  a  leather  pocket-book  full 
o'  notes,  an'  the  kid — Kemp's  grandson — picked  it 
up  in  the  rush  when  nobody  see  it.  I  see  it,  though, 
afterward,  when  the  row  was  over.  I  peeped  from 
the  stairs,  an'  I  see  Kemp  open  it  an'  take  out  notes 
— bunches  of  'em — dozens  !  " 

"  Ah,  you  did,  did  ye?  "  Dan  observed,  staring 
[  275  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

hard  at  his  sister,  "  Bunches  o'  bank  notes — 
dozens.  See  a  photo,  too?  Likeness  of  a  woman 
an'  a  boy?     'Cos  it  was  there." 

Mrs.  Grimes  stared  now.     "  Why,  yes,"  she  said. 

"But — but    'ow    do    you    come    to    know?      Eh? 

.     Dan !     .     .     .     Was  you — was  you " 

"  Never  mind  whether  I  was  nor  where  I  was.  If 
it  'adn't  been  for  you  I'd  a  had  them  notes  now, 
safe  an'  snug,  'stead  o'  Cap'en  Nat.  You  lost  me 
them !  " 

"I  did?" 

"  Yes ;  you.  Wouldn't  'ave  me  come  to  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall  in  case  Cap'en  Nat  might  guess  I  was 
yer  brother — bein'  so  much  like  ye !  Like  you ! 
Gr-r-r !     'Ope  I  ain't  got  a  face  like  that !  " 

"  Ho  yes  !  You're  a  beauty,  Dan  Ogle,  ain't  ye? 
But  what's  all  that  to  do  with  the  notes  ?  "  Mrs. 
Grimes's  face  was  blank  with  wonder  and  doubt, 
but  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  growing  and  hardening 
suspicion.   "  What's  all  that  to  do  with  the  notes?  " 

"  It's  all  to  do  with  'em.  'Cos  o'  that  I  let  an- 
other chap  bring  a  watch  to  sell,  'stead  o'  takin'  it 
myself.  An'  'e  come  back  with  a  fine  tale  about 
Cap'en  Nat  off erin'  to  pay  'igh  for  them  notes ;  an' 
[276  1 


ON      THE      COP 

SO  I  was  fool  enough  to  let  'im  take  them  too,  'stead 
o'  goin'  myself.  But  I  watched  'im,  though — 
watched  'im  close.  'E  tried  to  make  a  bolt — an' — 
an'  so  Cap'en  Nat  got  the  notes  after  all,  it  seems, 
then?" 

"  Dan,"  said  Mrs.  Grimes  retreating  a  step ; 
"  Dan,  it  was  you !  It  was  you,  an'  you're  hiding 
for  it!" 

The  man  stood  awkward  and  sulky,  like  a  loutish 
schoolboy,  detected  and  defiant. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  s'pose  it  was.''    You 
ain't  got  no  proof  of  it;  an'  if  you  'ad 
What  'a'  ye  come  'ere  for,  eh  ?  " 

She  regarded  him  now  with  a  gaze  of  odd  cu- 
riosity, which  lasted  through  the  rest  of  their  talk ; 
much  as  though  she  were  convinced  of  some  ex- 
traordinary change  in  his  appearance,  which 
nevertheless  eluded  her  observation. 

"  I  told  you  what  I  come  for,"  she  answered, 
after  a  pause.  "  About  gettin'  them  notes  away 
from  Kemp — the  old  wretch !  " 

"  Umph !  Old  wretch.  'Cos  'e  wanted  to  keep 
'is  cash-box,  eh.''     Well,  what's  the  game.''  " 

Mrs.  Grimes  in  no  way  abated  her  intent  gaze, 
[  277  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

but  she  came  a  little  closer,  with  a  sidling  step,  as 
if  turning  her  back  to  a  possible  listener.  "  There 
was  two  inquests  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,"  she  said ; 
"  two  on  the  same  day.  There  was  Kipps,  as  lost 
the  notes  when  Cap'en  Kemp  got  'em.  An'  there 
was  Marr  the  shipowner — an'  it  was  'im  as  lost  'em 
first!" 

She  took  a  pace  back  as  she  said  this,  looking  for 
its  effect.  But  Dan  made  no  answer.  Albeit  his 
frown  grew  deeper  and  his  eye  sharper,  and  he 
stood  alert,  ready  to  treat  his  sister  as  friend 
or  enemy  according  as  she  might  approve  her- 
self. 

"  Marr  lost  'em  first,"  she  repeated,  "  an'  I  can 
very  well  guess  how,  though  when  I  came  here  I 
didn't  knoAv  you  was  in  it.  How  did  I  know,  thinks 
you,  that  Marr  lost  'em  first?  I  got  eyes,  an'  I  got 
ears,  an'  I  got  common  sense;  an'  I  see  the  photo 
you  spoke  of — Marr  an'  'is  mother,  most  likely ; 
anyhow  the  boy  was  Marr,  plain,  whoever  the 
woman  was.  It  on'y  wanted  a  bit  o'  thinkin'  to 
judge  what  them  notes  had  gone  through.  But  I 
didn't  dream  you  was  so  deep  in  it !  Lor,  no  won- 
der Mag  was  frightened  when  I  see  'er!  " 
[  278  J 


ON      THE      COP 

Still  Dan  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  seemed 
brighter  and  smaller — perhaps  dangerous. 

So  the  woman  proceeded  quickly :  "  It's  all 
right!  You  needn't  be  frightened  of  my  knowin' 
things !  All  the  more  reason  for  your  gettin'  the 
notes  now,  if  you  lost  'em  before.  But  it's 
halves  for  me,  mind  ye.  Ain't  it  halves  for 
me.?" 

Dan  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  growled, 
"  We  ain't  got  'em  yet." 

"  No,  but  it's  halves  when  we  do  get  'em ;  or  else 
I  won't  say  another  word.     Ain't  it  halves  "^  " 

Dan  Ogle  could  afford  any  number  of  promises, 
if  they  would  win  him  information.  "  All  right," 
he  said.  "  Halves  it  is,  then,  when  we  get  'em.  An' 
how  are  we  goin'  to  do  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Grimes  sidled  closer  again.  "  Marr  the 
shipowner  lost  'em  first,"  she  said,  "  an'  he  was 
pulled  out  o'  the  river,  dead  an'  murdered,  just  at 
the  back  o'  the  Hole  in  the  Wall.     See.?  " 

"Well.?" 

"  Don't  see  it?    Kemp's  got  the  pocket-book." 

"  Yes." 

"  Don't  see  it  yet.?  Well ;  there's  more.  There's 
[  279] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
a  room  at  the  back  o'  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  where 
it  stands  on  the  piles,  with  a  trap-door  over  the 
water.     The  police  don't  know  there's  a  trap-door 
there.     I  do." 

Dan  Ogle  was  puzzled  and  suspicious.  "  What's 
the  good  o'  that.''  "  he  asked. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  such  a  fool,  Dan  Ogle. 
There's  a  man  murdered  with  notes  on  him,  an'  a 
photo,  an'  a  watch — you  said  there  was  a  watch. 
He's  found  in  the  river  just  behind  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall.  There's  a  trap-door — secret — at  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall,  over  the  water ;  j  ust  the  place  he  might 
'a'  been  dropped  down  after  he  was  killed.  An' 
Kemp  the  landlord's  got  the  notes  an'  the  pocket- 
book,  an'  the  photo  all  complete;  an'  most  likely 
the  watch  too,  since  you  tell  me  he  bought  it;  an' 
Viney  (iould  swear  to  'em.  Ain't  all  that  enough  to 
hang  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp,  if  the  police  was  to  drop 
in  sudden  on  the  whole  thing?  " 

Dan's  mouth  opened,  and  his  face  cleared  a  lit- 
tle. "  I  s'pose,"  he  said,  "  you  mean  you  might 
put  it  on  to  the  police  as  it  was  Cap'en  Nat  did  it ; 
an'  when  they  searched  they'd  find  all  the  stuff,  an' 
the  pocket-book,  an'  the  watch,  an'  the  likeness,  an' 
r  280  1 


ON      THE      cor 

the  trap-door;  an'  that  'ud  be  evidence  enough  to 
put  'im  on  the  string?  " 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Grimes, 
with  hungry  spite  in  her  eyes.  "  Of  course  I  mean 
it !  An'  dearly  I'd  love  to  see  it  done,  too !  Cap' en 
Nat  Kemp,  with  'is  money  an'  'is  gran'son  'e's  goin' 
to  make  a  gentleman  of,  an'  all !  '  'Ope  you'll  be 
honest  where  you  go  next,'  says  Cap'en  Kemp, 
'  whether  you're  grateful  to  me  or  not ! '  Honest 
an'  grateful !     I'll  give  'im  honest  an'  grateful !  " 

Dan  Ogle  grinned  silently.  "  No,"  he  said, 
"  you  won't  forgive  'im,  I  bet,  if  it  was  only  'cos 
you  began  by  makin'  such  a  pitch  to  marry  'im !  " 
A  chuckle  broke  from  behind  the  grin.  "  You'd 
rather  hang  him  than  get  his  cash-box  now,  I'll 
swear !  " 

Mrs.  Grimes  was  red  with  anger.  "  I  would 
that !  "  she  cried.  "  You're  nearer  truth  than  you 
think,  Dan  Ogle!  An'  if  you  say  too  much  you'll 
lose  the  money  you're  after,  for  I'll  go  an'  do  it! 
So  now ! " 

Dan  clicked  his  tongue  derisively.  "  Thought 
you'd  come  to  tell  me  how  to  get  the  stuff,"  he  said. 
"  'Stead  o'  that  you  tell  me  how  to  hang  Cap'en 
[281] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
Nat,  very  clever,  an'  lose  it.    I  don't  see  that  helps 
us." 

"  Go  an'  threaten  him." 

"  Threaten  Cap'en  Nat  ?  "  exclaimed  Dan,  glar- 
ing contempt,  and  spitting  it.  "  Oh  yes,  I  see  my- 
self!  Cap'en  Nat  ain't  that  sort  o'  mug.  I'm  as 
'ard  as  most,  but  I  ain't  'ard  enough  for  a  job  like 
that :  or  soft  enough,  for  that's  what  I'd  be  to  try 
it  on.  Lor'  lumme!  Go  an'  ask  any  man  up  the 
Highway  to  face  Cap'en  Nat,  an'  threaten  him! 
Ask  the  biggest  an'  toughest  of  'em.  Ask  Jim 
Crute,  with  his  ear  like  a  blue-bag,  that  he  chucked 
out  o'  the  bar  like  a  kitten,  last  week !  '  Cap'en 
Nat,'  says  I,  '  if  you  don't  gimme  eight  hundred 
quid,  I'll  hit  you  a  crack ! '  Mighty  fine  plan  that ! 
That  'ud  get  it,  wouldn't  it.?  Ah,  it  'ud  get  some- 
thing!" 

"  I  didn't  say  that  sort  of  threat,  you  fool ! 
You've  got  no  sense  for  anything  but  bashing. 
There's  the  evidence  that  'ud  hang  him ;  go  an'  tell 
him  that,  and  say  he  shall  swing  for  it,  if  he  doesn't 
hand  over !  " 

Dan  stared  long  and  thoughtfully.     Then  his 
lip  curled  again.    "  Pooh !  "  he  said.    "  I'm  a  fool, 
[  282  ] 


ON     THE     COP 

am  I  ?  Oh !  Anyhow,  whether  I  am  or  not,  I'm  a 
fool's  brother.  Threaten  Cap'en  Nat  with  the  evi- 
dence, says  you!  What  evidence?  The  evidence 
what  he's  got  in  his  own  hands !  S'pose  I  go,  hke 
a  mug,  an'  do  it.  Fust  thing  he  does,  after  he's 
kicked  me  out,  is  to  chuck  the  pocket-book  an'  the 
likeness  on  the  fire,  an'  the  watch  in  the  river.  Then 
he  changes  the  notes,  or  sells  'em  abroad,  an'  how 
do  we  stand  then  ?  Why  you're  a  bigger  fool  than 
I  thought  you  was!     .     .     .     What's  that.'"' 

It  was  nothing  but  a  gun  on  the  marsh,  where 
a  cockney  sportsman  was  out  after  anything  ho 
could  hit.  But  Dan  Ogle's  nerves  were  alert,  and 
throughout  the  conversation  he  had  not  relaxed  his 
watch  toward  London ;  so  that  the  shot  behind  dis- 
turbed him  enough  to  break  the  talk. 

"  We've  been  here  long  enough,"  he  said.  "  You 
hook  it.  I'll  see  about  Cap'en  Nat.  Your  way's 
no  good.  I'll  try  another,  an'  if  that  don't  come 
off — well,  then  you  can  hang  him  if  you  like,  an' 
welcome.  But  now  hook  it,  an'  shut  your  mouth 
till  I've  had  my  go.  'Nough  said.  Don't  go  back 
the  way  you  come." 

[  283  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  Ctoentp 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


llxY  father's  death  wrought  in  Grandfather  Nat 
a  change  that  awed  me.  He  looked  older  and  paler 
— even  smaller.  He  talked  less  to  me,  but  began, 
I  fancied,  to  talk  to  himself.  Withal,  his  manner 
was  kinder  than  before,  if  that  were  possible; 
though  it  was  with  a  sad  kindness  that  distressed 
and  troubled  me.  More  than  once  I  woke  at  night 
with  candle-light  on  my  face,  and  found  him  gaz- 
ing down  at  me  with  a  grave  doubt  in  his  eyes ; 
whereupon  he  would  say  nothing,  but  pat  my  cheek, 
and  turn  away. 

Early  one  evening  as  I  sat  in  the  bar-parlour, 
and  my  grandfather  stood  moodily  at  the  door  be- 
tween that  and  the  bar,  a  man  came  into  the  pri- 
vate compartment  whom  I  had  seen  there  frequently 
before.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  man  who  had  brought 
the  silver  spoons  on  the  morning  when  I  first  saw 
RatclifF  Highway,  and  he  was  perhaps  the  most 
regular  visitor  to  the  secluded  corner  of  the  bar. 
This  time  he  slipped  quietly  and  silently  in  at  the 
door,  and,  remaining  just  within  it,  out  of  sight 
[  287  J 


THE     HOLE     IN     THEWALL 
from  the  main  bar,  beckoned;  his  manner  suggest- 
ing business  above  the  common. 

But  my  grandfather  only  frowned  grimly,  and 
stirred  not  as  much  as  a  finger.  The  man  beckoned 
again,  impatiently;  but  there  was  no  favour  in 
Grandfather  Nat's  eye,  and  he  answered  with  a 
growl.  At  that  the  man  grew  more  vehement,  pat- 
ted his  breast-pocket,  jerked  his  thumb,  and  made 
dumb  words  with  a  great  play  of  mouth. 

"  You  get  out ! "  said  Grandfather  Nat. 

A  shade  of  surprise  crossed  the  man's  face,  and 
left  plain  alarm  behind  it.  His  eyes  turned  quickly 
toward  the  partition  which  hid  the  main  bar  from 
him,  and  he  backed  instantly  to  the  door  and  van- 
ished. 

A  little  later  the  swing  doors  of  the  main  bar 
were  agitated,  and  an  eye  was  visible  between  them, 
peeping.  They  parted,  and  disclosed  the  face  of 
that  same  stealthy  visitor  but  lately  sent  away  from 
the  other  door.  Reassured,  as  it  seemed,  by  what 
he  saw  of  the  company  present,  he  came  boldly  in, 
and  called  for  a  drink  with  an  elaborate  air  of  un- 
concern. But,  as  he  took  the  glass  from  the  pot- 
man, I  could  perceive  a  sidelong  glance  at  piy 
[  288  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
Grandfather,  and  presently  another.  Captain  Nat, 
however,  disregarded  him  wholly;  while  the  pale 
man,  aware  of  he  knew  not  what  between  them, 
looked  alertly  from  one  to  the  other,  ready  to  aban- 
don his  long-established  drink,  or  to  remain  by  it, 
according  to  circumstances. 

The  man  of  the  silver  spoons  looked  indifferently 
from  one  occupant  of  the  bar  to  the  next,  as  he 
took  his  cold  rum.  There  was  the  pale  man,  and 
Mr.  Cripps,  and  a  sailor,  who  had  been  pretty 
regular  in  the  bar  of  late,  and  who,  though  noisy 
and  apt  to  break  into  disjointed  song,  was  not  so 
much  positively  drunk  as  never  wholly  sober.  And 
there  were  two  others,  regular  frequenters  both. 
Having  well  satisfied  himself  of  these,  the  man  of 
the  silver  spoons  finished  his  rum  and  walked  out. 
Scarce  had  the  door  ceased  to  swing  behind  him, 
when  he  was  once  more  in  the  private  compartment, 
now  with  a  knowing  and  secure  smile,  a  cough  and 
a  nod.  For  plainly  he  supposed  there  must  have 
been  a  suspicious  customer  in  the  house,  who  was 
now  gone. 

Grandfather  Nat  let  fall   the  arm  that  rested 
against  the  door  frame.   "  Out  3^ou  go!  "  he  roared. 
[  289  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  If  you  want  another  drink  the  other  bar's  good 
enough  for  you.  If  you  don't  I  don't  want  you 
here.     So  out  you  go !  " 

The  man  was  dumfounded.  He  opened  his 
mouth  as  though  to  say  something,  but  closed  it 
again,  and  slunk  backward. 

"  Out  you  go !  "  shouted  the  unsober  sailor  in 
the  large  bar.  "  Out  you  go !  You  'bey  orders, 
see.'*  Lord,  you'd  better  'bey  orders  when  it's 
Cap'en  Kemp  !  Ah,  I  know,  I  do !  "  And  he  shook 
his  head,  stupidly  sententious. 

But  the  fellow  was  gone  for  good,  and  the  pale 
man  was  all  eyes,  scratching  his  cheek  feebly,  and 
gazing  on  Grandfather  Nat. 

"  Out  he  goes ! "  the  noisy  sailor  went  on. 
"  That's  Cap'en's  orders.  Cap'en's  orders  or  mate's 
orders,  all's  one.  Like  father,  like  son.  Ah,  I 
know !  " 

"  Ah,"  piped  Mr.  Cripps,  "  a  marvellious  fine 
orficer  Cap'en  Kemp  must  ha'  been  aboard  ship,  I'm 
sure.     Might  you  ever  ha'  sailed  under  'im  ?  " 

"  Me?  "  cried  the  sailor  with  a  dull  stare.   "Me? 
Under   him?     .     .     .     Well    no,   not   under   him. 
But  cap'en's  orders  or  mate's  orders,  all's  one." 
[290] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  P'rhaps,"  pursued  Mr.  Cripps  in  a  lower  voice, 
with  a  glance  over  the  bar,  "  p'rhaps  you've  been 
with  young  Mr.  Kemp — the  late  ?  " 

"  Him.''  "  This  with  another  and  a  duller  stare. 
"  Him.''  Um!  Ah,  well — never  mind.  Never  you 
mind,  see.''  You  mind  yer  own  business,  my  fine 
feller!" 

Mr.  Cripps  retired  within  himself  with  no  delay, 
and  fixed  an  abstracted  gaze  on  his  half-empty 
glass.  I  think  he  was  having  a  disappointing  even- 
ing; people  were  disagi'eeable,  and  nobody  had 
stood  him  a  drink.  More,  Captain  Nat  had  been 
quite  impracticable  of  late,  and  for  days  all  ap- 
proaches to  the  subject  of  the  sign,  or  the  board  to 
paint  it  on,  had  broken  down  hopelessly  at  the 
start.  As  to  the  man  just  sent  away,  Mr.  Cripps 
seemed,  and  no  doubt  was,  wholly  indifferent.  Cap- 
tain Nat  was  merely  exercising  his  authority  in 
his  own  bar,  as  he  did  every  day,  and  that  was 
all. 

But  the  pale  man  was  clearly  uneasy,  and  that 
with  reason.  For,  as  afterwards  grew  plain,  the 
event  was  something  greater  than  it  seemed.  In- 
deed, it  was  nothing  less  than  the  end  of  the  indi- 
[  291  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
rect  traffic  in  watches  and  silver  spoons.  From  that 
moment  every  visitor  to  the  private  compartment 
was  sent  away  with  the  same  peremptory  incivihty ; 
every  one,  save  perhaps  some  rare  stranger  of  the 
better  sort,  who  came  for  nothing  but  a  drink.  So 
that,  in  course  of  a  day  or  two,  the  private  com- 
partment went  almost  out  of  use;  and  the  pale 
man's  face  grew  paler  and  longer  as  the  hours 
went.  He  came  punctually  every  morning,  as 
usual,  and  sat  his  time  out  with  the  stagnant 
drink  before  him,  till  he  received  my  grandfather's 
customary  order  to  "  drink  up  " ;  and  then  van- 
ished till  the  time  appointed  for  his  next  attend- 
ance. But  he  made  no  more  excursions  into  the 
side  court  after  sellers  of  miscellaneous  valuables. 
From  what  I  know  of  my  grandfather's  character, 
I  believe  that  the  pale  man  must  have  been  paid 
regular  wages;  for  Grandfather  Nat  was  not  a 
man  to  cast  off  a  faithful  servant,  though  plainly 
the  man  feared  it.  At  any  rate  there  he  remained 
with  his  perpetual  drink ;  and  so  remained  until 
manj'  things  came  to  an  end  together. 

There  was  a  certain  relief,  and,  I  think,  an  odd 
touch  of  triumph  in  Grandfather  Nat's  face  and 
[  292  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
manner  that  night  as  he  kissed  me,  and  bade  me 
good-night.  As  for  myself,  I  did  not  reahse  the 
change,  but  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  my  grand- 
father had  sent  away  his  customer  on  my  account ; 
and  for  long  I  lay  awake,  and  wondered  why. 


[293] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cijapter  Ctoentp^^one 


IN    THE   BAR-PARLOUR 


Stephen  was  sound  asleep,  and  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall  had  closed  its  eyes  for  the  night.  The  pale 
man  had  shuffled  off,  with  his  doubts  and  appre- 
hensions, toward  the  Highway,  and  Mr.  Cripps 
was  already  home  in  Limehouse.  Only  the  half- 
drunken  sailor  was  within  hail,  groping  toward 
some  later  tavern,  and  Captain  Nat,  as  he  extin- 
guished the  lamps  in  the  bar,  could  hear  his  song 
in  the  distance : — 

The  grub  was  had  an  the  pay  was  low. 

Leave  her,  Johnny,  leave  her  ! 
So  hump  your  duds  an"  ashore  you  go 

For  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her  ! 

Captain  Nat  blew  out  the  last  light  in  the  bar, 
and  went  into  the  bar-parlour.  He  took  out  the 
cash-box,  and  stood  staring  thoughtfully  at  the  lid 
for  some  seconds.  He  was  turning  at  last  to  ex- 
tinguish the  lamp  at  his  elbow,  when  there  was  a 
soft  step  without,  and  a  cautious  tap  at  the  door. 

Captain  Nat's  eyes  widened,  and  the  cash-box 
went  back  under  the  shelf.  The  tap  was  repeated, 
f  297  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

ere  the  old  man  could  reach  the  door  and  shoot  back 
the  bolts.  This  done,  he  took  the  lamp  in  his  left 
hand,  and  opened  the  door. 

In  the  black  of  the  passage  a  man  stood,  tall  and 
rough.  Just  such  a  figure  Captain  Nat  had  seen 
there  before,  less  distinctly,  and  in  a  briefer 
glimpse ;  for  indeed  it  was  Dan  Ogle. 

"  Well?  "  said  Captain  Nat. 

"  Good  evenin',  Cap'en,"  Dan  answered,  with  an 
uncouth  mixture  of  respect  and  familiarity.  "  I 
jist  want  five  minutes  with  you." 

"  O,  you  do,  do  you  ?  "  replied  the  landlord, 
reaching  behind  himself  to  set  the  lamp  on  the 
table.  "  What  is  it.''  I've  a  notion  I've  seen  you 
before." 

"  Very  like,  Cap'en.  It's  all  right ;  on'y  busi- 
ness." 

"  Then  what's  the  business  ?  " 

Dan  Ogle  glanced  to  left  and  right  in  the  gloom 
of  the  alley,  and  edged  a  step  nearer.  "  Best  spoke 
of  indoors,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  Best  for  you  an' 
me  too.     Nothin'  to  be  afraid  of — on'y  business." 

"Afraid  of!     Phoo!     Come  in,  then." 

Dan  complied,  with  an  awkward  assumption  of 
f  298  1 


IN      THE      BAR-PARLOUR 

jaunty  confidence,  and  Captain  Nat  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

"  Nobody  to  hsten,  I  suppose?  "  asked  Ogle. 

"  No,  nobody.     Out  with  it !  " 

"  Well,  Cap'en,  just  now  you  thought  you'd  seen 
me  before.  Quite  right ;  so  you  have.  You  see  me 
in  the  same  place — just  outside  that  there  door. 
An'  I  borrowed  your  boat." 

"  Umph !  "  Captain  Nat's  eyes  were  keen  and 
hard.     "  Is  your  name  Dan  Ogle.?  " 

"  That's  it,  Cap'en."  The  voice  was  confident, 
but  the  eye  was  shifty.  "  Now  you  know.  A  chap 
tried  to  do  me,  an'  I  put  his  light  out.  You  went 
for  me,  an'  chased  me ;  but  you  stuck  your  hooks  in 
the  quids  right  enough."  Dan  Ogle  tried  a  grin 
and  a  wink,  but  Captain  Nat's  frown  never 
changed. 

"  Well,  well,"  Dan  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  it's 
all  right,  anyhow.  I  outed  the  chap,  an'  you  took 
care  o'  the  ha'pence;  so  we  helped  each  other,  an' 
done  it  atween  us.  I  just  come  along  to-night  to 
cut  it  up." 

"Cut  what  up.?" 

"  Why,  the  stuff.  Eight  hundred  an'  ten  quid 
[299] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

in  notes,  in  a  leather  pocket-book.  Though  I  ain't 
particular  about  the  pocket-book."  Dan  tried  an- 
other grin,  "  Four  hundred  an'  five  quid'll  be  good 
enough  for  me:  though  it  ought  to  be  more,  seein' 
I  got  it  first,  an'  the  risk  an'  all." 

Captain  Nat,  with  a  foot  on  a  chair  and  a  hand 
on  the  raised  knee,  relaxed  not  a  shade  of  his  fierce 
gaze.  "  Who  told  you,"  he  asked  presently,  "  that 
I  had  eight  hundred  an'  ten  pound  in  a  leather 
pocket-book.''  " 

"  O  a  little  bird — just  a  pretty  little  bird, 
Cap'en." 

"  Tell  me  the  name  o'  that  pretty  little  bird." 

"  Lord  lumme,  Cap'en,  don't  be  bad  pals !  It 
ain't  a  little  bird  what'll  do  any  harm !  It's  all 
safe  an'  snug  enough  between  us,  an'  I'm  doin'  it 
on  the  square,  ain't  1?  I  knowed  about  you,  an' 
you  didn't  know  about  me;  but  I  comes  fair  an' 
open,  an'  says  it  was  me  as  done  it,  an'  I  on'y  want 
a  fair  share  up  between  pals  in  a  job  together. 
That's  all  right,  ain't  it?" 

"  Was  it  a  pretty  little  bird  in  a  bonnet  an'  a 
plaid  shawl.?     A  scraggy  sort  of  a  little  bird  with 
a  red  beak.^*      The  sort  of  little  bird  as  likes  to 
r  SOO  1 


IN      THE      BAR-PARLOUR 

feather  its  nest  with  a  cash-box — one  as  don't  be- 
long to  it?  Is  that  your  pattern  o'  pretty  little 
bird?" 

"  Well,  well,  s'pose  it  is,  Cap'en  ?  Lord,  don't 
be  bad  pals !  I  ain't,  am  I  ?  Make  things  straight, 
an'  I'll  take  care  she  don't  go  a  pretty-birdin'  about 
with  the  tale.  I'll  guarantee  that,  honourable. 
You  ain't  no  need  be  afraid  o'  that." 

"  D'ye  think  I  look  afraid?  " 

"  Love  ye,  Cap'en,  why  I  didn't  mean  that ! 
There  ain't  many  what  'ud  try  to  frighten  you. 
That  ain't  my  tack.  You're  too  hard  a  nut  for 
that,  anybody  knows."  Dan  Ogle  fidgetted  un- 
easily with  a  hand  about  his  neck-cloth;  while  the 
other  arm  hung  straight  by  his  side.  "  But  look 
here,  now,  Cap'en,"  he  went  on ;  "  you're  a  straight 
man,  an'  you  don't  round  on  a  chap  as  trusts  you. 
That's  right,  ain't  it?  " 

"Well?"  Truly  Captain  Nat's  piercing  stare, 
his  unwavering  frown,  were  disconcerting.  Dan 
Ogle  had  come  confidently  prepared  to  claim  a 
share  of  the  plunder,  just  as  he  would  have  done 
from  any  rascal  in  Blue  Gate.  But,  in  presence  of 
the  man  he  knew  for  his  master,  he  had  had  to  be- 
[  301  1 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
gin  with  no  more  assurance  than  he  could  force 
on  himself ;  and  now,  though  he  had  met  not  a  word 
of  refusal,  he  was  reduced  well-nigh  to  pleading. 
But  he  saw  the  best  opening,  as  by  a  flash  of  in- 
spiration; and  beyond  that  he  had  another  re- 
source, if  he  could  but  find  courage  to  use  it. 

"  Well?  "  said  Captain  Nat. 

"  You're  the  sort  as  plays  the  square  game  with 
a  man  as  trusts  you,  Cap'en.  Very  well.  Fve 
trusted  you.  I  come,  an'  put  myself  in  your  way, 
an'  told  you  free  what  I  done,  an'  I  ask,  as  man 
to  man,  for  my  fair  whack  o'  the  stuff.  Bein'  the 
straight  man  you  are,  you'll  do  the  fair  thing." 

Captain  Nat  brought  his  foot  down  from  the 
chair,  and  the  knee  from  under  his  hand;  and  he 
clenched  the  hand  on  the  table.  But  neither  move- 
ment disturbed  his  steady  gaze.  So  he  stood  for 
three  seconds.  Then,  with  an  instant  dart,  he  had 
Dan  Ogle  by  the  hanging  arm,  just  above  the 
wrist. 

Dan  sprang  and  struggled,  but  his  wrist  might 

have  been  chained  to  a  post.     Twice  he  made  offer 

to  strike  at  Captain  Nat's  face  with  the  free  hand, 

but  twice  the  blow  fainted  ere  it  had  well  begun. 

[  302  ] 


IN  THE  BAR-PAR  I.  OUR 
Tall  and  powerful  as  he  was,  he  knew  himself  no 
match  for  the  old  skipper.  Pallid  and  staring,  he 
whispered  hoarsely,  "  No,  Cap'en — no !  Drop  it ! 
Don't  put  me  away!  Don't  crab  the  deal! 
D'y'ear " 

Captain  Nat,  grim  and  silent,  slowly  drew  the 
imprisoned  fore-arm  forward,  and  plucked  a  bare 
knife  from  within  the  sleeve.  There  was  blood  on 
it,  for  his  grip  had  squeezed  arm  and  blade  to- 
gether. 

"  Umph !  "  growled  Captain  Nat,  "  I  saw  that 
in  time,  my  lad ;  "  and  he  stuck  the  knife  in  the 
shelf  behind  him. 

"  S'elp  me,  Cap'en,  I  wasn't  meanin'  anythink 
— s'elp  me  I  wasn't,"  the  ruffian  pleaded,  cowering 
but  vehement,  with  his  neckerchief  to  his  cut  arm. 
"  That's  on'y  where  I  carry  it,  s'elp  me — on'y 
where  I  keep  it !  " 

"  Ah,  I've  seen  it  done  before ;  but  it's  an 
awkward  place  if  you  get  a  squeeze,"  the  skipper 
remarked  dryly.  "  Now  you  listen  to  me.  You 
say  you've  come  an'  put  yourself  in  my  power,  an' 
trusted  me.  So  you  have — with  a  knife  up  your 
sleeve.  But  never  mind  that — I  doubt  if  you'd  ha' 
[  303  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 
had  pluck  to  use  it.    You  killed  a  man  at  my  door, 
because  of  eight  hundred  pound  you'd  got  between 
you ;  but  to  get  that  money  you  had  to  kill  another 
man  first." 

"  No,  Cap'en,  no " 

"  Don't  try  to  deny  it,  man !  Why  it's  what's 
saving  you !  I  know  where  that  money  come  from 
— an'  it's  murder  that  got  it.  Marr  was  the  man's 
name,  an'  he  was  a  murderer  himself;  him  an'  an- 
other between  'em  ha'  murdered  my  boy ;  murdered 
him  on  the  high  seas  as  much  as  if  it  was  pistol  or 
poison.  He  was  doin'  his  duty,  an'  it's  murder,  I 
tell  you — murder,  by  the  law  of  England!  That 
man  ought  to  ha'  been  hung,  but  he  wasn't,  an'  he 
never  would  ha'  been.  He'd  ha'  gone  free,  except 
for  you,  an'  made  money  of  it.  But  you  killed  that 
man,  Dan  Ogle,  an'  you  shall  go  free  for  it  your- 
self;  for  that  an'  because  I  won't  sell  what  you 
trusted  me  with  about  this  other." 

Captain  Nat  turned  and  took  the  knife  from  the 
shelf.  "  Now  see,"  he  went  on.  "  You've  done  jus- 
tice on  a  murderer,  little  as  you  meant  it ;  but  don't 
you  come  tryin'  to  take  away  the  orphan's  com- 
pensation— not  as  much  as  a  penny  of  it!  Don't 
[  304  ] 


IN  THE  BAR-  PARLOUR 
you  touch  the  compensation,  or  I'll  give  you  up !  I 
will  that!  Just  you  remember  when  you're  safe. 
The  man  lied  as  spoke  to  seein'  you  that  night  by 
the  door ;  an'  now  he's  gone  back  on  it,  an'  so  you've 
nothing  to  fear  from  him,  an'  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  police.  Nothing  to  fear  from  anybody  but 
me ;  so  you  take  care,  Dan  Ogle !  .  .  .  Come, 
enough  said !  " 

Captain  Nat  flung  wide  the  door  and  pitched  the 
knife  into  the  outer  darkness.  "  There's  your 
knife ;  go  after  it !  " 


[  305  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cf)apter  Ctoentp^too 


ON    THE    COP 

Continued 


W  HEN  Viney  followed  the  limy  man  from 
Musky  Mag's  door  he  kept  him  well  in  view  as 
far  as  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  and  there  waited.  But 
when  Grimes  emerged,  and  Viney  took  up  the  chase, 
he  had  scarce  made  three-quarters  of  the  way 
through  the  crooked  lanes  toward  the  Commercial 
Road,  when,  in  the  confusion  and  the  darkness  of 
the  turnings,  or  in  some  stray  rack  of  fog,  the  man 
of  lime  went  wholly  amissing.  Viney  hurried  for- 
ward, doubled,  and  scoured  the  turnings  about  him. 
Drawing  them  blank,  he  hastened  for  the  main 
road,  and  there  consumed  well  nigh  an  hour  in 
profitless  questing  to  and  fro ;  and  was  fain  at  last 
to  seek  out  Blind  George,  and  confess  himself 
beaten. 

But  Blind  George  made  a  better  guess.  After 
Viney's  departure  in  the  wake  of  Grimes,  he  had 
stood  patiently  on  guard  in  the  black  archwa}',  and 
had  got  his  reward.  For  he  heard  Musky  Mag's 
feet  descend  her  stairs;  noted  her  timid  pause  at 
the  door;  and  ear-watched  her  progress  to  the 
[  309  J 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALE 
street  corner.  There  she  paused  again,  as  he 
judged,  to  see  that  nobody  followed ;  and  then  hur- 
ried out  of  earshot.  He  was  no  such  fool  as  to  at- 
tempt to  dog  a  woman  with  eyes,  but  contented 
himself  with  the  plain  inference  that  she  was  on 
her  way  to  see  Dan  Ogle,  and  that  the  man  whom 
Viney  was  following  had  brought  news  of  Dan's 
whereabouts ;  and  with  that  he  turned  to  the  High- 
way and  his  fiddling.  So  that  when  he  learned 
that  the  limy  man  had  called  at  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall,  and  had  gone  out  of  Viney's  sight  on  his  way 
East,  Blind  George  was  quick  to  think  of  Kemp's 
Wharf,  and  to  resolve  that  his  next  walk  abroad 
should  lead  him  to  the  Lea  bank. 

The  upshot  of  this  was  that,  after  some  trouble, 
Dan  Ogle  and  Blind  George  met  on  the  Cop,  and 
that  Dan  consented  to  a  business  interview  with 
Viney.  He  was  confident  enough  in  any  dealings 
with  either  of  them  so  long  as  he  cockered  in  them 
the  belief  that  he  still  had  the  notes.  So  he  said 
very  little,  except  that  Viney  might  come  and  make 
any  proposal  he  pleased;  hoping  for  some  chance- 
come  expedient  whereby  he  might  screw  out  a  little 
on  account. 

F  310  1 


ON      THE      COP 

And  so  it  followed  that  on  the  morning  after  his 
unsuccessful  negotiation  with  Captain  Nat,  Dan 
Ogle  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Henry  Viney 
at  that  self-same  spot  on  the  bank-side  where  he 
had  talked  with  Blind  George. 

Dan  was  surly ;  first  because  it  was  policy  to  say 
little,  and  to  seem  intractable,  and  again  because, 
after  the  night's  adventure,  it  came  natural.  "  So 
you're  Viney,  are  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  I  ain't 
afraid  o'  you.  I  know  about  you.  Blind  George 
told  me  your  game." 

"  Who  said  anything  about  afraid  ?  "  Viney  pro- 
tested, the  eternal  grin  twitching  nervously  in  his 
yellow  cheeks.  "  We  needn't  talk  about  being 
afraid.     It  seems  to  me  we  can  work  together." 

"O,  does  it?     How.?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  you  can't  change  'em." 

"What?" 

"  O,  damn  it,  you  know  what  I  mean.  The 
money — ^the  notes." 

"  O,  that's  what  you  mean,  is  it?  Well,  s'pose 
I  can't?" 

"Well — of  course — if  you  can't — eh?     If 'you 
can't,  they  might  be  so  much  rags,  eh?" 
[311] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      AVALL 

"  P'rhaps  they  might — if  I  can't." 

"  But  you  know  you  can't,"  retorted  the  other, 
with  a  spasm  of  apprehension.  "  Else  you'd  have 
done  it  and — and  got  farther  off." 

"  Well,  p'rhaps  I  might.  But  that  ain't  all  you 
come  to  say.     Go  on." 

Viney  thoughtfully  scratched  his  lank  cheek, 
peering  sharply  into  Dan's  face.  "  Things  bein' 
what  they  are,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "  they're  no 
more  good  to  you  than  rags  ;  not  so  much." 

"  All  right.  S'pose  they  ain't ;  you  don't  think 
I'm  a-goin'  to  make  you  a  present  of  'em,  do  ye.''  " 

"  Why  no,  I  didn't  think  that.  I'll  pay — rea- 
sonable. But  you  must  remember  that  they're  no 
good  to  you  at  all — not  worth  rag  price ;  so  what- 
ever you  got  'ud  be  clear  profit." 

"  Then  how  much  clear  profit  will  you  give 
me?" 

Viney's  forefinger  paused  on  his  cheek,  and  his 
gaze,  which  had  sunk  to  Dan  Ogle's  waistcoat,  shot 
sharply  again  at  his  eyes.  "  Ten  pound,"  said 
Viney. 

Dan  chuckled,  partly  at  the  absurdity  of  the 
offer,  partly  because  this  bargaining  for  the  un- 
[  312  J 


ON     THE     COP 

producible  began  to  amuse  him.  "  Ten  pound 
clear  profit  for  me,"  he  said,  "  an'  eight  hundred 
pound  clear  profit  for  you.  That's  your  idea  of  a 
fair  bit  o'  trade !  " 

"  But  it  was  mine  first,  and — and  it's  no  good 
to  you — you  say  so  yourself !  " 

"  No ;  nor  no  good  to  you  neither — 'cause  why  ? 
You  ain't  got  it !  "  Dan's  chuckle  became  a  grin. 
"  If  you'd  ha'  said  a  hundred,  now " 

"  What?  " 

"  Why,  then  I'd  ha'  said  four  hundred.  That's 
what  I'd  ha'  said !  " 

"  Four  hundred "?  Why,  you're  mad  !  Besides, 
I  haven't  got  it — I've  got  nothing  till  I  can  change 
the  notes ;  only  the  ten." 

Dan  saw  the  chance  he  had  hoped  for.  "  I'll 
make  it  dirt  cheap,"  he  said,  "  first  an'  last,  no  less 
an'  no  more.  Will  you  give  me  fifty  down  for  'em 
when  you've  got  'em  changed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will."  Viney's  voice  was  almost  too 
eager. 

"  Straight .?     No  tricks,  eh  ?  " 

Viney  was  indignant  at  the  suggestion.  He 
scorned  a  trick. 

[  313  1 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE      WALL 

"  No  hoppin'  the  twig  with  the  whole  lot,  an' 
leavin'  me  in  the  cart?  " 

Viney  was  deeply  hurt.  He  had  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  thing. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  trust  you.  Give  us  the  tenner 
on  account."  Dan  Ogle  stuck  out  his  hand  care- 
lessly; but  it  remained  empty. 

"  I  said  I'd  give  fifty  when  they're  changed," 
grinned  Viney,  knowingly. 

"  What  ?  Well,  I  know  that ;  an'  not  play  no 
tricks.  An'  now  when  I  ask  you  to  pay  first  the 
ten  you've  got,  you  don't  want  to  do  it!  That 
don't  look  like  a  chap  that  means  to  part  straight 
an'  square,  does  it.?  " 

Viney  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "  All  right," 
he  said,  "  that's  fair  enough.  Ten  now  an'  forty 
when  the  paper's  changed.     Where's  the  paper.?" 

"  O,  I  ain't  got  that  about  me  just  now,"  Dan 
replied  airily.  "  Be  here  to-morrow,  same  time. 
But  you  can  give  me  the  ten  now." 

Viney's  teeth  showed  unamiably  through  his 
grin.  "  Ah,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  be  here  to-morrow  with 
that,  same  time !  " 

"  What?  "  It  was  Dan's  honour  that  smarted 
[  314  ] 


ON     THE     COP 
now.     "What?     Won't  trust  me  with  ten,  when  I 
offer,  free  an'  open,  to  trust  you  with  forty?     O, 
it's  off  then.     I'm  done.     It's  enough  to  make  a 
man  sick."     And  he  turned  loftily  away. 

Viney's  grin  waxed  and  waned,  and  he  followed 
Dan  with  his  eyes,  thinking  hard.  Dan  stole  a  look 
behind,  and  stopped. 

"  Look  here,"  Viney  said  at  last.  "  Look  here. 
Let's  cut  it  short.  We  can't  sharp  each  other, 
and  we're  wasting  time.  You  haven't  got  those 
notes." 

Dan  half-turned,  and  answered  in  a  tone  between 
question  and  retort.     "  O,  haven't  I?  "  he  said. 

"  No ;  you  haven't.  See  here ;  I'll  give  you 
five  pound  if  you'll  show  'em  to  me.  Only  show 
'em." 

Dan  was  posed.  "  I  said  I  hadn't  got  'em  about 
me,"  he  said,  rather  feebly. 

"No;  nor  can't  get  'em.  Can  you?  Cut  it 
short." 

Dan  looked  up  and  down,  and  rubbed  his  cap 
about  his  head.  "  I  know  where  they  are,"  he 
sulkily  concluded. 

"  You  know  where  the}'  are,  but  you  can't  get 
[  315  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 
'em,"  Viney  retorted  with  decision.     "  Can  I  get 
'em?" 

Dan  glanced  at  him  superciliously.  "  You  ?  " 
he  answered.     "  Lord,  no." 

"  Can  we  get  'em  together.''  " 

Dan  took  to  rubbing  his  cap  about  his  head 
again,  and  staring  very  thoughtfully  at  the 
ground.  Then  he  came  a  step  nearer,  and  looked 
up.  "  Two  might,"  he  said,  "  if  you'd  see  it 
through.     With  nerve." 

Viney  took  him  by  the  upper  arm,  and  drew 
close.  "  We're  the  two,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
where  the  stuff  is,  and  you  say  we  can  get  it.  We'll 
haggle  no  more.  We're  partners  and  we'll  divide 
all  we  get.    How's  that.?  " 

"How  about  Blind  George.?" 

"  Never  mind  Blind  George — unless  you  want  to 
make  him  a  present.  /  don't.  Blind  George  can 
fish  for  himself.  He's  shoved  out.  We'll  do  it,  and 
we'll  keep  what  we  get.  Now  where  are  the  notes.? 
Who's  got  them .?  " 

Dan  Ogle  stood   silent   a  moment,   considering. 
He  looked  over  the  bank  toward  the  London  streets, 
down  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  and  then  up  at  an 
[  316  ] 


ON      THE      COP 

adventurous  lark,  that  sang  nearer  and  still  nearer 
the  town  smoke.  Last  he  looked  at  Viney,  and 
made  up  his  mind.  "  Who's  got  'em  ?  "  he  re- 
peated ;  "  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp's  got  'em." 

"What.?     Cap'en " 

"  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp's  got  'em." 

Viney  took  a  step  backward,  turned  his  foot  on 
the  slope,  and  sat  back  on  the  bank,  staring  at 
Dan  Ogle.  "Cap'en  Nat  Kemp.''"  he  said. 
"  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp?  " 

"  Ay ;  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp.  The  notes,  an'  the 
leather  pocket-book;  an'  the  photo;  an'  the  whole 
kit.     Marr's  photo,  ain't  it,  with  his  mother  .'^  " 

"  Yes,"  Viney  answered.  "  When  he  was  a 
boy.  He  wasn't  a  particular  dutiful  son,  but  he 
always  carried  it :  for  luck,  or  something.  But 
— Cap'en  Kemp!     Where  did  he  get  them?" 

Dan  Ogle  sat  on  the  bank  beside  Viney,  facing 
the  river,  and  there  told  him  the  tale  he  had  heard 
from  Mrs.  Grimes.  Also  he  told  him,  with  many 
suppressions,  just  as  much  of  his  own  last  night's 
adventure  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  as  made  it  plain 
that  Captain  Nat  meant  to  stick  to  what  he  had 
got. 

[317] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 

Viney  heard  it  all  in  silence,  and  sat  for  a  while 
with  his  head  between  his  hands,  thinking,  and 
occasionally  swearing.  At  last  he  looked  up,  and 
dropped  one  hand  to  his  knee.  "  I'd  have  it  out 
of  him  by  myself,"  he  said,  "  if  it  wasn't  that  I 
want  to  lie  low  a  bit." 

Dan  grunted  and  nodded.  "  I  know,"  he  re- 
plied, "  The  Juno.     I  know  about  that." 

Viney  started.  "  What  do  you  know  about 
that.?"  he  asked. 

"  Pretty  well  all  you  could  tell  me.  I  hear 
things,  though  I  am  lyin'  up ;  but  I  heard  before, 
too.     Marr  chattered  like  a  poll-parrot." 

Viney  swore,  and  dropped  his  other  hand.  "Ay ; 
so  Blind  George  said.  Well,  there's  nothing  for 
me  out  of  the  insurance,  and  I'm  going  to  let  the 
creditors  scramble  for  it  themselves.  There'd  be 
awkward  questions  for  me,  with  the  books  in  the 
receiver's  hands,  and  what  not.  So  I'm  not  show- 
ing for  a  bit.  Though,"  he  added,  thought- 
fully, "  I  don't  know  that  I  mightn't  try  it,  even 
now." 

Dan's  eyes  grew  sharp.  "  We're  doin'  this  to- 
gether, Mr.  Viney,"  he  said.  "  You'd  better  not 
[318] 


ON      THE      COP 

go  tryin'  things  without  me;  I  mightn't  like  it. 
I  ain't  a  nice  man  to  try  games  on  with;  one's 
tried  a  game  over  this  a'ready,  mind." 

"  I'm  trying  no  games,"  Viney  protested.  "  Tell 
us  your  way,  if  you  don't  want  to  hear  about 
mine." 

Dan  Ogle  was  sitting  with  his  chin  on  his 
doubled  fists,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  muddy 
river.  "  My  way's  rough,"  he  replied,  "  but  it's 
thorough.  An'  it  wipes  off  scores.  I  owe  Cap'en 
Nat  one." 

Viney  looked  curiously  at  his  companion. 
"Well.?"  he  said. 

"  An'  there'd  be  more  in  it  than  eight  hundred 
an'  ten.     P'rhaps  a  lump  more." 

"How.''"     Viney 's  eyes  widened. 

"  Umph."  Dan  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  and  looked  Viney  in  the  eyes.  "  Are  3^ou 
game.''"  he  asked.  "You  ain't  a  faintin'  sort, 
are  you.'*  You  oughtn't  to  be,  seein'  you  was  a 
ship's  officer." 

Viney's  mouth  closed  tight.  "  No,"  he  said ; 
"  I  don't  think  I  am.     What  is  it.?  " 

Dan  Ogle  looked  intently  in  his  face  for  a  few 
[319  1 


THE      H  O  I-  E      IN      THE      W  A  E  L 
seconds,   and  then   said :   "  Only   him  an'   the   kid 
sleeps  in  the  house." 

Vinej  started.  "  You  don't  mean  breaking 
in  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  won't  do  that ;  it's  too — • 
too " 

"  Ah,  too  risky,  of  course,"  Dan  replied,  with  a 
curl  of  the  lip.  "  But  I  don't  mean  breakin'  in. 
Nothing  like  it.  But  tell  me  first;  s'pose  breakin' 
in  wasn't  risky ;  s'pose  you  knew  you'd  get  away 
safe,  with  the  stuff.  Would  you  do  it  then .''  "  And 
he  peered  keenly  at  Viney's  face. 

Viney  frowned.  "  That  don't  matter,"  he  said, 
"  if  it  ain't  the  plan.     S'pose  I  would  .-^  " 

"  Ha-ha  !  that'll  do !  I  know  your  sort.  Not 
that  I  blame  you  about  the  busting — it  'ud  take 
two  pretty  tough  'uns  to  face  Cap'en  Nat,  I  can 
tell  you.  But  now  see  here.  Will  you  come  with 
me,  an'  knock  at  his  side  door  to-night,  after  the 
place  is  shut.^^  " 

"  Knock  ?    And  what  then  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  You  know  the  alley  down  to  the 
stairs.''  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Black  as  pitch  at  night,  with  a  row  o'  posts 
[320] 


ON     THE     C  (J  P 

holding  up  the  house.  Now  when  everybody's 
gone  an'  he's  putting  out  the  hghts,  you  go  an' 
tap  at  the  door." 

"Well?" 

"  You  tap  at  the  door,  an'  he'll  come.  You're 
alone — see.?  I  stand  back  in  the  dark,  behind  a 
post.  He  never  sees  me.  '  Good  evenin'  '  says  you. 
*  I  just  want  a  word  with  you,  if  you'll  step  out.' 
An'  so  he  does." 

"And  what  then.?" 

"  Nothing  else — not  for  you ;  that's  all  your  job. 
Easy  enough,  ain't  it.?  " 

Viney  turned  where  he  sat,  and  stared  fixedly 
at  his  confederate's  face.  "  And  then — then — 
what " 

"  Then  I  come  on.  He  don't  know  I'm  there — 
behind  him." 

Viney's  mouth  opened  a  little,  but  with  no  grin ; 
and  for  a  minute  the  two  sat,  each  looking  in  the 
other's  face.  Then  said  Viney,  with  a  certain 
shrinking :  "  No,  no ;  not  that.  It's  hanging,  you 
know ;  it's  hanging — for  both." 

Dan  laughed — an  ugly  laugh,  and  short.  "  It 
ain't  hanging  for  that,"  he  said;  "it's  hanging 
[321] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
for  gettin'  caught.  An'  where's  the  chance  o' 
that?  We  take  our  own  time,  and  the  best  place 
you  ever  see  for  a  job  hke  that,  river  handy  at 
the  end  an'  all ;  an'  everything  settled  beforehand. 
Safe  a  job  as  ever  I  see.  Look  at  me.  I  ain't 
hung  yet,  am  I.''  But  I've  took  my  chances,  an' 
took  'em  when  it  wasn't  safe,  like  as  this  is." 

Viney  stared  at  vacancy,  like  a  man  in  a  brown 
study ;  and  his  dry  tongue  passed  slowly  along  his 
drier  lips. 

"  As  for  bein'  safe,"  Dan  went  on,  "  what  little 
risk  there  is,  is  for  me.  You're  all  right.  We 
don't  know  each  other.  Not  likely.  How  should 
you  know  I  was  hidin'  there  in  the  dark  when  you 
went  to  speak  to  Cap'en  Nat  Kemp?  Come  to 
that,  it  might  ha'  been  you  outed  instead  o'  your 
friend,  what  you  was  talkin'  so  sociable  with.  An' 
there's  more  there  than  what's  in  the  pocket-book. 
Remember  that.     There's  a  lump  more  than  that." 

Viney  rubbed  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand.     "How  do  you  know?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"  How  do  I  know?     How  did  I  know  about  the 
pocket-book  an'  the  notes?     I  ain't  been  the  best 
o'  pals  with  my  sister,  but  she  couldn't  ha'  been 
[  322  1 


ON  THE  COP 
there  all  this  time  without  my  hearing  a  thing  or 
two  about  Cap'en  Nat;  to  say  nothing  of  what 
everybody  knows  as  knows  anything  about  him. 
Money  ?  O'  course  there's  money  in  the  place ;  no 
telling  how  much ;  an'  watches,  an'  things,  as  he 
buys.    P'rhaps  twice  that  eight  hundred,  an'  more." 

Viney's  eyes  were  growing  sharper  — growing 
eager.  "  It  sounds  all  right,"  he  remarked,  a  lit- 
tle less  huskily.  "  Especially  if  there's  more  in  it 
than  the  eight  hundred.  But — but — are  you — you 
know — sure  about  it  ?  " 

"  You  leave  that  to  me.  I'll  see  after  my  de- 
partment, an'  yours  is  easy  enough.  Come,  it's 
a  go,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  But  perhaps  he'll  make  a  row — call  out,  or 
something." 

"  He  ain't  the  sort  o'  chap  to  squeal ;  an'  if  he 
was  he  wouldn't — not  the  way  I'm  goin'  to  do  it. 
You'll  see." 

"An'  there's  the  boy — what  about  him.''" 

"  O,  the  kid.''    Upstairs.    He's  no  account,  after 
we've  outed  Cap'en  Nat.     No  more'n  a  tame  rab- 
bit.    An'  we'll  have  all  night  to  turn   the  place 
over,  if  we  want  it — though  we  sha'n't.     We'll  be 
I  323  1 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

split  out  before  the  potman  comes :  fifty  mile  apart, 
with  full  pockets,  an'  nobody  a  ha'porth  the 
wiser." 

Viney  bit  at  his  fingers,  and  his  eyes  lifted  and 
sank,  quick  and  keen,  from  the  ground  to  Ogle's 
face,  and  back  again.  But  it  was  enough,  and  he 
asked  for  no  more  persuasion.  Willing  murderers 
both,  they  set  to  planning  details :  what  Viney 
should  say,  if  it  were  necessary  to  carry  the  talk 
with  Captain  Nat  beyond  the  first  sentence  or  so; 
where  they  must  meet;  and  the  like.  And  here, 
on  Viney's  motion,  a  change  was  made  as  regarded 
time.  Not  this  immediate  night,  but  the  night  fol- 
lowing, was  resolved  on  for  the  stroke  that  should 
beggar  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  of  money  and  of  life. 
For  to  Viney  it  seemed  desirable,  first,  to  get  his 
belongings  away  from  his  present  lodgings,  for 
plain  reasons ;  so  as  to  throw  off  Blind  George,  and 
so  as  to  avoid  flight  from  a  place  where  he  was 
known,  on  the  very  night  of  the  crime.  This  it 
were  well  to  do  at  once ;  yet,  all  unprepared  as  he 
was,  he  could  not  guess  what  delays  might  inter- 
vene; and  so  for  all  reasons  Captain  Nat  and  the 
child  were  reprieved  for  twenty-four  hours. 
f  324  1 


ON     THE     COP 

Thus  in  full  terms  the  treaty  was  made.  Dan 
Ogle,  shrink  as  he  might  from  Captain  Nat  face 
to  face  (as  any  ruffian  in  Blue  Gate  would),  was 
as  ready  to  stab  him  in  flie  back  for  vengeance  as 
for  gain.  For  he  was  conscious  that  never  in  all 
his  years  of  bullying  and  scoundrelism  had  he  cut 
quite  so  poor  a  figure  in  face  of  any  man  as  last 
night  in  face  of  Captain  Nat.  As  to  the  gain,  it 
promised  to  be  large,  and  easy  in  the  getting;  and 
for  his  sister,  now  that  she  could  help  no  more, — 
she  could  as  readily  be  flung  out  of  the  business  as 
Blind  George.  The  opportunity  was  undeniable. 
A  better  place  for  the  purpose  than  the  alley  lead- 
ing to  the  head  of  Hole-in-the-Wall  Stairs  could 
never  have  been  planned.  Once  the  house  was  shut, 
and  the  potman  gone,  no  more  was  needed  than 
to  see  the  next  police  patrol  go  by,  and  the  thing 
was  done.  Here  was  the  proper  accomplice  too:  a 
man  known  to  Captain  Nat,  and  one  with  whom 
he  would  readily  speak;  and,  in  Ogle's  eyes,  the 
business  was  no  more  than  a  common  stroke  of  his 
trade,  with  an  uncommon  prospect  of  profit.  As 
for  Viney,  money  was  what  he  wanted,  and  here 
it  could  be  made,  as  it  seemed,  with  no  great  risk. 
[  325  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
It  was  surer,  far,  than  going  direct  to  Captain 
Nat  and  demanding  the  money  under  the  old 
threat.  That  was  a  httle  outworn,  and,  indeed 
was  not  so  substantial  a  i)ogey  as  it  might  seem  in 
the  eyes  of  Captain  Nat,  for  years  remorseful,  and 
now  apprehensive  for  his  grandchild's  sake;  for 
the  matter  was  old,  and  evidence  scarce,  except 
Viney's  own,  which  it  would  worse  than  incon- 
venience him  to  give.  So  that  a  large  demand 
might  break  down  ;  while  here,  as  he  was  persuaded, 
was  the  certainty  of  a  greater  gain,  which  was 
the  main  thing.  And  if  any  shadow  of  scruple 
against  direct  and  simple  murder  remained,  it  van- 
ished in  the  reflection  that  not  he,  but  Ogle, 
would  be  the  perpetrator,  as  well  as  the  contriver. 
For  himself,  he  would  but  be  opening  an  innocent 
conversation  with  Kemp.  So  Viney  told  himself; 
and  so  desire  and  conscience  are  made  to  run  cou- 
pled, all  the  world  over,  and  all  time  through. 

All  being  appointed,  the  two  men  separated. 
They  stood  up,  they  looked  about  them,  over  the 
Lea  and  over  the  ragged  field;  and  they  shook 
hands. 

[326] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  %Sx^tnt^^tfjxtt 


ON    THE    COP 

Continued 


AT  was  morning  still,  as  Viney  went  away  over  the 
Cop ;  and,  when  he  had  vanished  beyond  the  distant 
group  of  little  houses,  Dan  Ogle  turned  and  crept 
lazily  into  his  shelter :  there  to  make  what  dinner  he 
might  from  the  remnant  of  the  food  thn\  Mag  had 
brought  him  the  evening  before ;  and  to  doze  away 
the  time  on  his  bed  of  dusty  sacks,  till  she  should 
bring  more  in  the  evening  to  come.  He  would  have 
given  much  for  a  drink,  for  since  his  retreat  to 
Kemp's  Wharf  the  lime  had  penetrated  clothes  and 
skin  and  had  invaded  his  very  vitals.  More  par- 
ticularly it  had  invaded  his  throat :  and  the  pint 
or  so  of  beer  that  Mag  brought  in  a  bottle  was  not 
enough  to  do  more  than  aggravate  the  trouble. 
But  no  drink  was  there,  and  no  money  to  buy  one ; 
else  he  might  well  have  ventured  out  to  a  public- 
house,  now  that  the  police  sought  him  no  more.  As 
for  Grimes  of  the  Wharf  (who  had  been  growing 
daily  more  impatient  of  Dan's  stay),  he  offered  no 
better  relief  than  a  surly  reference  to  the  pump. 
[329] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  and  swear; 
with  the  consolation  that  this  night  should  be  his 
last  at  Kemp's  Wharf. 

Sunlight  came  with  the  afternoon,  and  speckled 
the  sluggish  Lea ;  then  the  shadow  of  the  river-wall 
fell  on  the  water  and  it  was  dull  again ;  and  the 
sun  itself  grew  duller,  and  lower,  and  larger,  in  the 
haze  of  the  town.  If  Dan  Ogle  had  climbed  the 
bank,  and  had  looked  across  the  Cop  now,  he  would 
have  seen  Blind  George,  stick  in  hand,  feeling  his 
way  painfully  among  hummocks  and  ditches  in  the 
distance.  Dan,  however,  was  expecting  nobody, 
and  he  no  longer  kept  watch  on  all  comers,  so  that 
Blind  George  neared  unnoted.  He  gained  the 
lime-strewn  road  at  last,  and  walked  with  more  con- 
fidence. Up  and  over  the  bank,  and  down  on  the 
side  next  the  river,  he  went  so  boldly  that  one  at  a 
distance  would  never  have  guessed  him  blind ;  for 
on  any  plain  road  he  had  once  traversed  he  was 
never  at  fault;  and  he  turned  with  such  readiness 
at  the  proper  spot,  and  so  easily  picked  his  way  to 
the  shed,  that  Dan  had  scarce  more  warning  than 
could  bring  him  as  far  as  the  door,  where  they  met. 

"  Dan !  "  the  blind  man  said ;  "  Dan,  old  pal ! 
[  330  1 


ON      THE      COP 

It's  you  I  can  hear,  I'll  bet,  ain't  it?  Where  are 
ye?  "     And  he  groped  for  a  friendly  grip. 

Dan  Ogle  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  a  little 
puzzled.  Still,  he  could  do  no  harm  by  hearing 
what  Blind  George  had  to  say,  so  he  answered : 
"All  right.     What  is  it?" 

Guided  by  the  sound,  Blind  George  straightway 
seized  Dan's  arm ;  for  this  was  his  way  of  feeling 
a  speaker's  thoughts  while  he  heard  his  words. 
"  He's  gone,"  he  said,  "  gone  clean.  Do  you  know 
where  ?  " 

Dan  glared  into  the  sightless  eye,  and  shook  his 
captured  arm  roughly.     "Who?"  he  asked. 

"  Viney.     Did  you  let  him  have  the  stuff?  " 

"What  stuff?     When?" 

"  What  stuff?  That's  a  rum  thing  to  ask.  Un- 
less— O !"  George  dropped  his  voice,  and  put  his 
face  closer.     "Anybody  to  hear?"  he  whispered. 

"  No." 

"  Then  why  ask  what  stuff?  You  didn't  let  him 
have  it  this  morning,  did  you?  " 

"  Dunno  what  you  mean.  Never  see  him  this 
morning." 

Blind  George  retracted  his  head  with  a  jerk,  and 
[331] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

a  strange  look  grew  on  his  face:  a  look  of  anger 
and  suspicion ;  strange  because  the  great  colourless 
eye  had  no  part  in  it.  "  Dan,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"  them  ain't  the  words  of  a  pal — not  of  a  faithful 
pal,  they  ain't.    It's  a  damn  lie !  " 

"  Lie  yerself !  "  retorted  Dan,  thrusting  him 
away.     "  Let  go  my  arm,  go  on  !  " 

"  I  knew  he  was  coming,"  Blind  George  went 
on,  "  an'  I  follered  up,  an'  waited  behind  them 
houses  otlicr  side  the  Cop.  I  want  my  whack,  1 
do.  I  beared  him  coming  away,  an'  I  called  to 
him,  but  he  scuttled  off.  I  know  his  step  as  well 
as  what  another  man  'ud  know  his  face.  I'm  a 
poor  blind  bloke,  but  I  ain't  a  fool.  What's  your 
game,  telling  me  a  lie  like  that  ?  " 

He  was  standing  off  from  the  door  now,  angry 
and  nervously  alert.  Dan  growled,  and  then  said: 
"  You  clear  out  of  it.  You  come  to  me  first  from 
Viney,  didn't  you?  Very  well,  you're  his  pal  in 
this.     Go  an'  talk  to  him  about  it." 

"  I've  been — that's  where  I've  come  from.     I've 

been  to  his  lodgings  in  Chapman  Street,  an'  he's 

gone.     Said  he'd  got  a  berth  aboard  ship — a  lie. 

Took  his  bag  an'  cleared,  soon  as  ever  he  could  get 

[  332  ] 


ON      THE      C  ()  P 
back  from  here.     He's  on  for  doing  me  out  o'  my 
whack,  arter  I  put  it  all  straight  for  him — that's 
about  it.    You  won't  put  me  in  the  cart,  Dan,  arter 
all  I  done!     Where's  he  gone.-^" 

"  I  dunno  nothing  about  him,  I  tell  you,"  Dan 
answered  angrily.  "  You  sling  3'our  hook,  or  I'll 
make  ye !  " 

"  Dan,"  said  the  blind  man,  in  a  voice  between 
appeal  and  threat ;  "  Dan,  I  didn't  put  3'ou  away, 
when  I  found  you  was  here !  " 

"  Put  me  away .''  You  ?  You  can  go  an'  trj^  it 
now,  if  you  like.  I  ain't  wanted;  they  won't  have 
me.  An'  if  they  would — how  long  'ud  you  last, 
next  time  you  went  into  Blue  Gate.?  Or  even  if 
you  didn't  go,  eh.''  How  long  would  a  man  last, 
that  had  both  his  eyes  to  see  with,  eh?  "  And  in- 
deed Blind  George  knew,  as  well  as  Dan  himself, 
that  London  was  unhealthy  for  any  traitor  to  the 
state  and  liberty  of  Blue  Gate.  "  How  long  would 
he  last.-^     You  try  it." 

"  Who  wants  to  try  it.''  I  on'y  want  to 
know-" " 

"  Shut  your  mouth.  Blind  George,  an'  get  out 
o'  this  place !  "  Ogle  cried,  fast  losing  patience,  and 
[  333  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
making  a  quick  step  forward.     "  Go,  or  you'll  be 
lame  as  well  as  blind,  if  I  get  hold  o'  ye !  " 

Blind  George  backed  involuntarily,  but  his  blank 
face  darkened  and  twisted  devilishly,  and  he 
gripped  his  stick  like  a  cudgel.  "  Ah,  I'm  blind, 
ain't  1?  Mighty  bold  with  a  blind  man,  ain't  ye? 
If  my  eyes  was  like  yours,  or  you  was  blind  as  me, 
you'd " 

"  Go !  "  roared  Dan  furiously,  with  two  quick 
steps.     "  Go !  " 

The  blind  man  backed  as  quickly,  fiercely  brand- 
ishing his  stick.  "  I'll  go — just  as  far  as  suits  me, 
Dan  Ogle !  "  he  cried.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  done 
out  o'  what's  mine!  One  of  ye's  got  away,  but 
I'll  stick  to  the  other!  Keep  off!  I'll  stick  to  ye 
till— keep  off!" 

As  Dan  advanced,  the  stick,  flourished  at  ran- 
dom, fell  on  his  wrist  with  a  crack,  and  in  a  burst 
of  rage  he  rushed  at  the  blind  man,  and  smote  him 
down  with  blow  on  blow.  Blind  George,  beaten  to 
a  heap,  but  cowed  not  at  all,  howled  like  a  wild 
beast,  and  struck  madly  with  his  stick.  The  stick 
reached  its  mark  more  than  once,  and  goaded  Ogle 
to  a  greater  fury.  He  punched  and  kicked  at  the 
[  334  ] 


ON     THE     COP 

plunging  wretch  at  his  feet:  who,  desperate  and 
unflinching,  with  his  mouth  spluttering  blood  and 
curses,  never  ceased  to  strike  back  as  best  he  might. 

At  the  noise  Grimes  came  hurrying  from  his  of- 
fice. For  a  moment  he  stood  astonished,  and  then 
he  ran  and  caught  Dan  by  the  arm.  "  I  won't 
have  it !  "  he  cried.  "  If  you  want  to  fight  you  go 
somewhere  else.  You — why — why,  damme,  the 
man's  blind !  " 

Favoured  by  the  interruption,  Blind  George 
crawled  a  little  off,  smearing  his  hand  through  the 
blood  on  his  face,  breathless  and  battered,  but  fac- 
ing his  enemy  still,  with  unabashed  malevolence. 
For  a  moment  Ogle  turned  angrily  on  Grimes,  but 
checked  himself,  and  let  fall  his  hands.  "  Blind  ?  " 
he  snarled.  "  He'll  be  dead  too,  if  he  don't  keep 
that  stick  to  hisself ;  that's  what  he'll  be !  " 

The  blind  man  got  on  his  feet,  and  backed  away, 
smearing  the  grisly  face  as  he  went.  "  Ah !  hold 
him  back !  "  he  cried,  with  a  double  mouthful  of 
oaths.  "  Hold  him  back  for  his  own  sake!  I  ain't 
done  with  you,  Dan  Ogle,  not  yet!  Fight?  Ah, 
I'll  fight  you — an'  fight  you  level !  I  mean  it !  I 
do !  I'll  fight  you  level  afore  I've  done  with  you  I 
[  335  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE      WALL 
Dead  I'll  be,  will  I?     Not  afore  you,  an'  not  afore 
I've  paid   you !  "      So  he  passed   over  the   bank, 
threatening  fiercely. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Grimes  to  Ogle,  "  this  ends 
this  business.  I've  had  enough  o'  you.  You  find 
some  other  lodgings." 

"  All  right,"  Ogle  growled.  "  I'm  going :  after 
to-night." 

"  I  dunno  why  I  was  fool  enough  to  let  you 
come,"  Grimes  pursued.  "  An'  when  I  did,  I  never 
said  your  pals  was  to  come  too.  I  remember  that 
blind  chap  now ;  I  see  him  in  Blue  Gate,  an'  I  don't 
think  much  of  him.  An'  there  was  another  chap 
this  morning.  Up  to  no  good,  none  of  ye ;  an'  like 
as  not  to  lose  me  my  job.  So  I'll  find  another  use 
for  that  shed,  see.?  " 

"  All  right,"  the  other  sulkily  repeated.  "  I  tell 
ye  I'm  going:    after  to-night." 


336 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Chapter  Ctoentp-fbur 


ON    THE    COP 

Continued 


Once  he  had  cut  clear  from  his  lodgings  without 
delay  and  trouble,  Viney  fell  into  an  insupportable 
nervous  impatience,  which  grew  with  every  min- 
ute. His  reasons  for  the  day's  postponement  now 
seemed  wholly  insufficient :  it  must  have  been,  he 
debated  with  himself,  that  the  first  shock  of  the 
suggestion  had  driven  him  to  the  nearest  excuse 
to  put  the  job  off,  as  it  were  a  dose  of  bitter 
physic.  But  now  that  the  thing  was  resolved  upon, 
and  nothing  remained  to  do  in  preparation,  the 
suspense  of  inactivity  became  intolerable,  and  grew 
to  torment.  It  was  no  matter  of  scruple  or  com- 
punction; of  that  he  never  dreamed.  But  the  en- 
terprise was  dangerous  and  novel,  and,  as  the  va- 
cant hours  passed,  he  imagined  new  perils  and 
dreamed  a  dozen  hangings.  Till  at  last,  as  night 
came  on,  he  began  to  fear  that  his  courage  could 
not  hold  out  the  time ;  and,  since  there  was  now  no 
reason  for  delay,  he  ended  with  a  resolve  to  get  the 
thing  over  and  the  money  in  his  pockets  that  same 
[  o'o9  J 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
night,  if  it  were  possible.     And  with  that  view  he 
set  out  for  the  Cop. 

Meantime  no  nervousness  troubled  his  confed- 
erate; for  him  it  was  but  a  good  stroTce  of  trade, 
with  a  turn  of  revenge  in  it;  and  the  penniless  in- 
terval mattered  nothing — could  be  slept  off,  in 
fact,  more  or  less,  since  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do. 

The  sun  sank  below  London,  and  night  came  slow 
and  black  over  the  marshes  and  the  Cop.  Grimes, 
rising  from  the  doorstep  of  his  office,  knocked  the 
last  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  passed  indoors.  Dan 
Ogle,  sitting  under  the  lee  of  his  shed,  found  no 
comfort  in  his  own  empty  pipe,  and  no  tobacco  in 
his  empty  pocket.  He  rose,  stretched  his  arms,  and 
looked  across  the  Lea  and  across  the  Cop.  He 
could  see  little  or  nothing,  for  the  dark  was  closing 
on  him  fast.  "  Blind  man's  holiday,"  muttered 
Dan  Ogle;  and  he  turned  in  for  a  nap  on  his  bed 
of  sacks. 

A  sulky  red  grew  up  into  the  darkening  western 
sky,  as  though  the  extinguished  sun  were  singeing 
all  the  world's  edge.  So  one  saw  London's  nimbus 
[  340  ] 


ON      THE      COP 

from  this  point  every  night,  and  saw  below  it  the 
scattered  spangle  of  lights  that  were  the  suburban 
sentries  of  the  myriads  beyond.  The  Cop  and  the 
marshes  lay  pitch-black,  and  nothing  but  the  faint 
lap  of  water  hinted  that  a  river  divided  them. 

Here,  Avhere  an  hour's  habit  blotted  the  great 
hum  of  London  from  the  consciousness,  sounds 
were  few.  The  perseverance  of  the  lapping  water 
forced  a  groan  now  and  again  from  the  moorings 
of  an  invisible  barge  lying  by  the  Wharf;  and  as 
often  a  ghostly  rustle  rose  on  the  wind  from  an 
old  willow  on  the  farther  bank.  And  presently, 
more  distinctly  than  either,  came  a  steady  snore 
from  the  shed  where  Dan  Ogle  lay. 

A  rustle  that  was  not  of  any  tree,  began  when 
the  snore  was  at  its  steadiest ;  a  gentle  rustle  indeed, 
where  something,  some  moving  shadow  in  the  black 
about  it,  crept  over  the  river-wall.  Clearer  against 
a  faint  patch,  which  had  been  white  with  lime  in 
daylight,  the  figure  grew  to  that  of  a  man :  a  man 
moving  in  that  murky  darkness  with  an  amazing 
facility,  address,  and  quietness.  Down  toward  the 
river-side  he  went,  and  there  stooping,  dipped  into 
the  water  some  small  coarse  bag  of  cloth,  that  hung 
[341] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
in  his  hand.     Then  he  rose,  and,  after  a  Kstening 
pause,  turned  toward  the  shed   whence  came  the 
snore. 

With  three  steps  and  a  pause,  and  three  steps 
more,  he  neared  the  door:  the  stick  he  carried 
silently  skimming  the  ground  before  him,  his  face 
turned  upward,  his  single  eye  rolling  blankly  at  the 
sky  that  was  the  same  for  him  at  night  or  noon ; 
and  the  dripping  cloth  he  carried  diffused  a  pun- 
gent smell,  as  of  wetted  quicklime.  So,  creeping 
and  listening,  he  reached  the  door.  Within,  the 
snore  was  regular  and  deep. 

Nothing  held  the  door  but  a  latch,  such  as  is 
lifted  by  a  finger  thrust  through  a  hole.  He  lis- 
tened for  a  moment  with  his  ear  at  this  hole,  and 
then,  with  infinite  precaution,  inserted  his  finger, 
and  lifted  the  latch.      ... 

Up  by  the  George  Tavern,  beyond  Stepney, 
Henry  Viney  was  hastening  along  the  Commercial 
Road  to  call  Dan  Ogle  to  immediate  business. 
Ahead  of  him,  by  a  good  distance.  Musky  Mag  hur- 
ried in  the  same  direction,  bearing  food  in  a  saucer 
and  handkerchief,  and  beer  in  a  bottle.  But  hurry 
[  342  ] 


ON      THE      COP 

as  they  might,  here  was  a  visitor  well  ahead  of 
both.     .     .     . 

The  door  opened  with  something  of  a  jar,  and 
with  that  there  was  a  little  choke  in  the  snore,  and 
a  moment's  silence.  Then  the  snore  began  again, 
deep  as  before.  Down  on  his  knees  went  Dan 
Ogle's  visitor,  and  so  crawled  into  the  deep  of  the 
shed. 

He  had  been  gone  no  more  than  a  few  seconds, 
when  the  snore  stopped.  It  stopped  with  a  thump 
and  a  gasp,  and  a  sudden  buffeting  of  legs  and 
arms ;  and  in  the  midst  arose  a  cry :  a  cry  of  so 
hideous  an  agony  that  Grimes  the  Wharf -keeper, 
snug  in  his  first  sleep  fifty  yards  away,  sprang  erect 
and  staring  in  bed,  and  so  sat  motionless  for  half  a 
minute  ere  he  remembered  his  legs,  and  thrust  them 
out  to  carry  him  to  the  window.  And  the  dog  on 
the  wharf  leapt  the  length  of  its  chain,  answering 
the  cry  with  a  torrent  of  wild  barks. 

Floundering    and    tumbling    against    the    frail 

boards  of  the  shed,  the  two  men  came  out  at  the 

door  in   a  struggling  knot:    Ogle   wrestling  and 

striking  at  random,  while  the  other,  cunning  with 

[  343  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

a  life's  blindness,  kept  his  own  head  safe,  and  hung 
as  a  dog  hangs  to  a  bull.  His  hands  gripped  his 
victim  by  ear  and  hair,  while  the  thumbs  still  drove 
at  the  eyes  the  mess  of  smoking  lime  that  clung  and 
dripped  about  Ogle's  head.  It  trickled  burning 
through  his  hair,  and  it  blistered  lips  and  tongue, 
as  he  yelled  and  yelled  again  in  the  extremity  of 
his  anguish.  Over  they  rolled  before  the  door- 
way ;  and  Ogle,  snatching  now  at  last  instead  of 
striking,  tore  away  the  hands  from  his  face. 

"  Fight  you  level,  Dan  Ogle,  fight  you  level 
now  !  "  Blind  George  gasped  between  quick  breaths. 
"  Hit  me  now,  you're  blind  as  me !  Hit  me ! 
Knock  me  down  !     Eh .''  " 

Quickly  he  climbed  to  his  feet,  and  aimed  a 
parting  blow  with  the  stick  that  hung  from  his 
wrist.  "Dead.'*"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Not 
afore  I've  paid  you !     No !  " 

He  might  have  stayed  to  strike  again,  but  his 
own  hands  were  blistered  in  the  struggle,  and  he 
hastened  off  toward  the  bank,  there  to  wash  them 
clear  of  the  slaking  lime.  Away  on  the  wharf  the 
dog  was  yelping  and  choking  on  its  chain  like  a 
mad  thing. 

[  344  ] 


ON     THE     COP 

Screaming  still,  with  a  growing  hoarseness,  and 
writhing  where  he  lay,  the  blinded  wretch  scratched 
helplessly  at  the  reeking  lime  that  scorched  his  skin 
and  seared  his  eyes  almost  to  the  brain.  Grimes 
came  running  in  shirt  and  trousers,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  could  find  how  matters  stood,  turned  and  ran 
again,  for  oil.  "  Good  God !  "  he  said.  "  Lime  in 
his  eyes !  Slaking  lime !  Why — why — it  must  be 
the  blind  chap !  It  must !  Fight  him  level,  he  said 
— an'  he's  blinded  him !  " 

There  was  a  group  of  people  staring  at  the 
patients'  door  of  the  Accident  Hospital  when  Viney 
reached  the  spot.  He  was  busy  enough  with  his 
own  thoughts,  but  he  stopped,  and  stared  also,  in- 
voluntarily. The  door  was  an  uninteresting  ob- 
ject, however,  after  all,  and  he  turned:  to  find  him- 
self face  to  face  with  one  he  well  remembered.  It 
was  the  limy  man  he  had  followed  from  Blue 
Gate  to  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  and  then  lost  sight 
of. 

Grimes  recognised  Viney  at  once  as  Ogle's  visitor 
of  the  morning.  "  That's  a  pal  o'  yourn  just  gone 
in  there,"  he  said. 

[  ^^^^  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

Viney  was  taken  aback.  "A  pal?"  he  asked. 
"What  pal?" 

"  Ogle — Dan  Ogle.  He's  got  lime  in  his  eyes, 
an'  blinded." 

"Lime?    Blinded?    How?" 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothing  about  how — I  dun- 
no,  an'  'tain't  my  business.  He's  got  it,  anyhow. 
There's  a  woman  in  there  along  of  him — his  wife, 
I  b'lieve,  or  somethiiig.  You  can  talk  to  her  about 
it,  if  you  like,  when  she  comes  out.  I've  got  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it." 

Grimes  had  all  the  reluctance  of  his  class  to  be 
"  mixed  up  "  in  any  matter  likely  to  involve  trou- 
ble at  a  police-court;  and  what  was  more,  he  saw 
himself  possibly  compromised  in  the  matter  of 
Ogle's  stay  at  the  Wharf.  But  Viney  was  so  vis- 
ibly concerned  by  the  news  that  soon  the  Wharf- 
keeper  relented  a  little — thinking  him  maybe  no 
such  bad  fellow  after  all,  since  he  was  so  anxious 
about  his  friend.  "  I've  heard  said,"  he  added  pres- 
ently in  a  lower  tone,  "  I've  heard  said  it  was  a 
blind  chap  done  it  out  o'  spite;  but  of  course  I 
dunno ;  not  to  say  myself.  On'y  what  I  heard,  you 
see.  I  don't  think  they'll  let  you  in ;  but  you  might 
f  346  1 


ON      T  H  E      COP 

see  the  woman.  They  won't  let  her  stop  long, 
'specially  takin'  on  as  she  was." 

Indeed  it  was  not  long  ere  Musky  Mag  emerged, 
reluctant  and  pallid,  trembling  at  the  mouth,  star- 
ing but  seeing  nothing.  Grimes  took  her  by  the 
arm  and  led  her  aside,  with  Viney.  "  Here's  a 
friend  o'  Dan's,"  Grimes  said,  not  unkindly,  giv- 
ing the  woman  a  shake  of  the  arm.  "  He  wants  to 
know  how  he's  gettin'  on." 

"  What's  'nucleate  ?  "  she  asked  hoarsely,  with  a 
dull  look  in  Viney's  face.  "  What's  'nucleate.''  I 
heard  a  doctor  say  to  let  'im  rest  to-night  an'  'nu- 
cleate in  the  mornin'.     What's  'nucleate?  " 

"  Some  sort  o'  operation,"  Grimes  hazarded. 
"  Did  they  say  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Blinded,"  the  woman  answered  weakly. 
"  Blinded.     But  the  pain's  eased  with  the  oil." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  interposed  Viney,  fullest 
of  his  own  concerns.  "  Did  he  say  someone  did 
it.?" 

"  He  told  me  about  it — whispered.  But  I 
sha'n't  say  nothing;  nor  him,  not  till  he  comes 
out." 

"  I  say — he  mustn't  get  talkin'  about  it,"  Viney 
[  3-^7  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALE 
said,  anxiously.  "  It — it'll  upset  things.  Tell  him 
when  you  see  him.  Here,  listen."  He  took  her 
aside  out  of  Grimes's  hearing.  "  It  wouldn't  do," 
he  said,  "  it  wouldn't  do  to  have  anybody  charged 
or  anything  just  now.  We've  got  something  big 
to  pull  off.  I  say — I  ought  to  see  him,  you  know. 
Can't  I  see  him?  But  there — someone  might  know 
me.  No.  But  you  must  tell  him.  He  mustn't  go 
informing,  or  anything  like  that,  not  yet.  Tell 
him,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Chargin'  ?  Informin'  ?  "  Mag  answered,  with 
contempt  in  her  shaking  voice.  "  Course  'e 
wouldn't  go  informin',  not  Dan.  Dan  ain't  that 
sort — 'e  looks  arter  hisself,  'e  does ;  'e  don't  go 
chargin'  people.     Not  if  'e  was  dyin !  " 

Indeed  Viney  did  not  sufficiently  understand  the 
morals  of  Blue  Gate :  where  to  call  in  the  aid  of  the 
common  enemy,  the  police,  was  a  foul  trick  to  which 
none  would  stoop.  In  Blue  Gate  a  man  inflicted 
his  own  punishments,  and  to  ask  aid  of  the  police 
was  worse  than  mean  and  scandalous :  it  was  weak ; 
and  that  in  a  place  where  the  weak  "  did  not  last," 
as  the  phrase  went.  It  was  the  one  restraint,  the 
sole  virtue  of  the  place,  enduring  to  death ;  and 
f  348  I 


ON  THE  COP 
like  some  other  virtues,  in  some  other  places,  it  had 
its  admixture  of  necessity ;  for  everybody  was 
"  wanted  "  in  turn,  and  to  call  for  the  help  of  a 
policeman  who  might,  as  likely  as  not,  begin  by 
seizing  oneself  by  the  collar,  would  even  have  been 
poor  policy :  bad  equally  for  the  individual  and  for 
the  community.  So  that  to  resort  to  the  law's  help 
in  any  form  was  classed  with  "  narking  "  as  the 
unpardonable  sin. 

"  You're  sure  o'  that,  are  you  ?  "  asked  Viney, 
apprehensively. 

"  Sure?  'Course  I'm  sure.  Dunno  what  sort  o' 
chap  you  take  'im  for.  'E's  no  nark.  An'  besides 
— 'e  can't.     There's  other  things,  an' " 

She  turned  away  with  a  sigh  that  was  near  a  sob, 
and  her  momentary  indignation  lapsed  once  more 
into  anxious  grief. 

Viney  went  off  with  his  head  confused  and  his 
plans  in  the  melting-pot.  Ogle's  scheme  was  gone 
by  the  board,  and  alone  he  could  scarce  trust  him- 
self in  any  enterprise  so  desperate.  What  should 
he  do  now.'*  Make  what  terms  he  might  with  Cap- 
tain Nat.f^     Need  was  pressing;  but  he  must  think. 

[349] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 

Continued 


X  HAVE  said  something  of  the  change  in  my 
grandfather's  habits  after  the  news  of  the  loss  of 
the  Juno  and  my  father's  death ;  something,  but 
not  all.  Not  only  was  he  abstracted  in  manner  and 
aged  in  look,  but  he  grew  listless  in  matters  of  daily 
life,  and  even  doubtful  and  infirm  of  purpose :  an 
amazing  thing  in  him,  whose  decision  of  character 
had  made  his  a  corner  of  the  world  in  which  his 
will  was  instant  law.  And  with  it,  and  through  it 
all,  I  could  feel  that  I  was  the  cause.  "  It  ain't  the 
place  for  you,  Stevy,  never  the  place  for  you,"  he 
would  say,  wistful  and  moody ;  wholly  disregard- 
ing my  protests,  which  I  doubt  he  even  heard. 
"  I've  put  one  thing  right,"  he  said  once,  thinking 
aloud,  as  I  sat  on  his  knee ;  "  but  it  ain't  enough ; 
it  ain't  enough."  And  I  was  sure  that  he  was  think- 
ing of  the  watches  and  spoons. 

As  to  that  matter,   people   with  valuables   had 
wholly   ceased   from   coming  to  the   private   com- 
partment.    But  the  pale  man  still  sat  in  his  cor- 
ner, and  Joe  the  potman  still  supplied  the  drink 
[  353  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
he  neglected.  His  uneasiness  grew  less  apparent 
in  a  day  or  so;  but  he  remained  puzzled  and  curi- 
ous, though  no  doubt  well  enough  content  with 
this,  the  most  patent  example  of  Grandfather 
Nat's  irresolution. 

As  for  Mr.  Cripps,  that  deliberate  artist's  whole 
practice  of  life  was  disorganised  by  Captain  Nat's 
indifference,  and  he  was  driven  to  depend  for  the 
barest  necessaries  on  the  casual  generosity  of  the 
bar.  In  particular  he  became  the  client  of  the  un- 
sober  sailor  I  have  spoken  of  already :  the  discipli- 
narian, who  had  roared  confirmation  of  my  grand- 
father's orders  when  the  man  of  the  silver  spoons 
got  his  dismissal.  This  sailor  was  old  in  the  ways 
of  Wapping,  as  in  the  practice  of  soaking,  it  would 
seem,  and  he  gave  himself  over  to  no  crimp.  Being 
ashore,  with  money  to  spend,  he  preferred  to  come 
alone  to  the  bar  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  and  spend 
it  on  himself,  getting  full  measure  for  every  penny. 
Beyond  his  talent  of  ceaselessly  absorbing  liquor 
without  becoming  wholly  drunk,  and  a  shrewd  eye 
for  his  correct  change,  he  exhibited  the  single  per- 
sonal characteristic  of  a  very  demonstrative  respect 
for  Captain  Nat  Kemp.  He  would  confirm  my 
[  354  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
grandfather's  slightest  order  with  shouts  and 
threats,  which  as  often  as  not  were  only  to  be 
quelled  by  a  shout  or  a  threat  from  my  grandfather 
himself ;  a  thing  of  instant  effect,  however.  "  Ay, 
ay,  sir !  "  the  man  would  answer,  and  humbly  re- 
turn to  his  pot.  "  Cap'en's  orders  "  he  would  some- 
times add  with  a  wink  and  a  hoarse  whisper  to  a 
chance  neighbour.  "  Always  'bey  cap'en's  orders. 
Knowed  'em  both,  father  an'  son." 

So  that  Mr.  Cripps's  ready  acquiescence  in  what- 
ever was  said  loudly,  and  in  particular  his  own 
habit  of  blandiloquence,  led  to  a  sort  of  agreement 
between  the  two,  and  an  occasional  drink  at  the 
sailor's  expense. 

But,  meantime,  his  chief  patron  was  grown  so 
abstracted  from  considerations  of  the  necessities  of 
genius,  so  impervious  to  hints,  so  deaf  to  all  sug- 
gestion of  grant-in-aid,  that  Mr.  Cripps  was  driven 
to  a  desperate  and  dramatic  stroke.  One  morning 
he  appeared  in  the  bar  carrying  the  board  for  the 
sign ;  no  tale  of  a  board,  no  description  or  account 
of  a  board,  no  estimate  or  admeasurement  of  a 
board;  but  the  actual,  solid,  material  board  itself. 

By  what  expedient  he  had  acquired  it  did  not 
[  355  J 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
fully  appear,  and,  indeed,  with  him,  cash  and  credit 
were  about  equally  scarce.  But  upon  one  thing  he 
most  vehemently  insisted :  that  he  dared  not  return 
home  without  the  money  to  pay  for  it.  The  raven- 
ing creditor  would  be  lying  in  wait  at  the  corner 
of  his  street. 

Mr.  Cripps's  device  for  breaking  through  Cap- 
tain Nat's  abstraction  succeeded  beyond  all  calcu- 
lation. For  my  grandfather  laid  hands  on  Mr. 
Cripps  and  the  board  together,  and  hauled  both 
straightway  into  the  skippers'  parlour  at  the  back. 

"  There's  the  board,"  he  said  with  decision,  "  an' 
there's  you.     Where's  the  paints  an'  brushes  ?  " 

Mr.  Cripps's  stock  of  paints  was  low,  it  seemed, 
or  exhausted.  His  brushes  were  at  home  and — 
his  creditor  was  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 

"  If  I  could  take  the  proceeds  " — Mr.  Cripps 
began ;  but  Grandfather  Nat  interrupted.  "  Here's 
you,  an'  here's  the  board,  an'  we'll  soon  get  the 
tools:  I'll  send  for  'em  or  buy  new.  Here,  Joe! 
Joe'll  get  'em.  You  say  what  you  want,  an'  he'll 
fetch  'em.  Here  you  are,  an'  here  you  stick,  an' 
do  my  signboard  !  " 

Mr.  Cripps  dared  not  struggle  for  his  liberty, 
[356] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
and  indeed  a  promise  of  his  meals  at  the  proper 
hours  reconciled  him  to  my  grandfather's  defiance 
of  Magna  Charta.  So  the  skippers'  parlour  be- 
came his  studio;  and  there  he  was  left  in  company 
with  his  materials,  a  pot  of  beer,  and  a  screw  of  to- 
bacco. I  much  desired  to  see  the  painting,  but  it 
was  ruled  that  Mr.  Cripps  must  not  be  disturbed. 
I  think  I  must  have  restrained  my  curiosity  for  an 
hour  at  least,  ere  I  ventured  on  tiptoe  to  peep 
through  a  little  window  used  for  the  passing  in 
and  out  of  drinks  and  empty  glasses.  Here  my 
view  was  somewhat  obstructed  by  Mr.  Cripps's  pot, 
which,  being  empty,  he  had  placed  upside  down  in 
the  opening,  as  a  polite  intimation  to  whomsoever 
it  might  concern ;  but  I  could  see  that  Mr.  Cripps's 
labours  having  proceeded  so  far  as  the  selection  of 
a  convenient  chair,  he  was  now  taking  relaxation  in 
profound  slumber.  So  I  went  away  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

When  at  last  he  was  disturbed  by  the  arrival  of 
his  dinner,  Mr.  Cripps  regained  consciousness  with 
a  sudden  bounce  that  almost  deposited  him  on  the 
floor. 

"  Conception,"    he    gasped,    rubbing   his    eyes, 
[  357  1 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  conception  an'  meditation,  an'  invention,  is  what 
you  want  in  a  job  like  this !  " 

"  Ah,"  replied  my  grandfather  grimly,  "  that's 
all,  is  it?  Then  common  things  like  dinner  don't 
matter.      Perhaps  Joe'd  better  take  it  away  ?  " 

But  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Cripps  wanted  his  dinner 
too.  He  had  it;  but  Grandfather  Nat  made  It 
clear  that  he  should  consider  meditation  wholly  In- 
consistent with  tea.  So  that,  in  course  of  the  after- 
noon, Mr.  Cripps  was  fain  to  paint  the  board  white, 
and  so  earn  a  liberal  Interval  of  rest,  while  it  dried. 
And  at  night  he  went  away  home  without  the  price 
of  the  board,  but,  instead,  a  note  to  the  effect  that 
the  amount  was  payable  on  application  to  Captain 
Kemp  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  Wapping.  This 
note  was  the  production,  after  three  successive  fail- 
ures, of  my  own  pen,  and  to  me  a  matter  of  great 
pride  and  delight ;  so  that  I  was  sadly  disappointed 
to  observe  that  Mr.  Cripps  received  it  with  emo- 
tions of  a  wholly  different  character. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Cripps  returned  to  durance 

with  another  pot  and   another   screw  of  tobacco. 

Grandfather  Nat  had  business  in  the  Minorles  in 

the  matter  of  a  distiller's  account ;  and  for  this  rea- 

[  358  ] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
son  divers  injunctions,  stipulations,  and  warnings 
were  entered  into  and  laid  upon  Mr.  Cripps  before 
his  departure.     As  for  instance: — 

It  was  agreed  that  Mr.  Cripps  should  remain 
in  the  skippers'  parlour. 

Also  (after  some  trouble)  that  no  exception 
should  be  made  to  the  foregoing  stipulation,  even 
in  the  event  of  Mr.  Cripps's  feeling  it  necessary 
to  go  out  somewhere  to  study  a  brick  wall  (or  the 
hole  in  it)  from  nature. 

Nor  even  if  he  felt  overcome  by  the  smell  of 
paint. 

Agreed,  however:  that  an  exception  be  granted 
in  the  event  of  the  house  being  on  fire. 

Further :  this  with  more  trouble :  that  one  pot  of 
beer  before  dinner  is  enough  for  any  man  seriously 
bent  on  the  pursuit  of  art. 

Moreover :  that  the  board  must  not  be  painted 
white  again. 

Lastly :  that  the  period  of  invention  and  medita- 
tion be  considered  at  an  end ;  and  that  sleep  on  I\Ir. 
Cripp's  part  be  regarded  as  an  acknowledgment 
that  meals  are  over  for  the  day. 

These  articles  being  at  length  agreed  and  con- 
[  359] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
firmed,  and  Mr.  Cripps  having  been  duly  witnessed 
to  make  certain  marks  with  charcoal  on  the  white 
board,  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith,  Grandfather 
Nat  and  I  set  out  for  the  Minories. 

His  moodiness  notwithstanding,  it  was  part  of 
his  new  habit  to  keep  me  near  him  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, day  and  night,  with  a  sort  of  wistful  jealousy. 
So  we  walked  hand  in  hand  over  the  swing  bridge, 
past  Paddy's  Goose,  into  the  Highway,  and  on 
through  that  same  pageant  of  romance  and  squalor. 
The  tradesmen  at  their  doors  saluted  Grandfather 
Nat  with  a  subdued  regard,  as  I  had  observed  most 
people  to  do  since  the  news  of  the  Juno^s  wreck. 
Indeed  that  disaster  was  very  freely  spoken  of, 
all  along  the  water-side,  as  a  deliberate  scuttling, 
and  it  was  felt  that  Captain  Nat  could  lay  his  be- 
reavement to  something  worse  than  the  fair  chance 
of  the  seas.  Such  things  were  a  part  of  the  daily 
talk  by  the  Docks,  and  here  all  the  familiar  feat- 
ures were  present ;  while  it  was  especially  noted  that 
nothing  had  been  seen  of  Viney  since  the  news  came. 
He  meant  to  lie  safe,  said  the  gossips;  since,  as  a 
bankrupt,  he  stood  to  gain  nothing  by  the  in- 
surance. 

[  360] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

One  tradesman  alone,  a  publican  just  beyond 
Blue  Gate,  greeted  my  grandfather  noisily,  but  he 
was  thoughtless  with  the  pride  of  commercial 
achievement.  P'or  he  was  enlarging  his  bar,  a 
large  one  already,  by  the  demolition  of  the  adjoin- 
ing shop,  and  he  was  anxious  to  exhibit  and  ex- 
plain his  designs. 

"  Why,  good  mornin'  Cap'en,"  cried  the  publi- 
can, from  amid  scaffold  poles  and  brick-dust. 
"  You're  a  stranger  lately.  See  what  I'm  doin'  ? 
Here:  come  in  here  an'  look.  How's  this,  eh?  An- 
other pair  o'  dooi's  just  over  there,  an'  the  bar 
brought  round  like  so,  an'  that  for  Bottle  an'  Jug, 
and  throw  the  rest  into  Public  Bar.     Eh  ?  " 

The  party  wall  had  already  been  removed,  and 
the  structure  above  rested  on  baulks  and  beams. 
The  bar  was  screened  off  now  from  the  place  of  its 
enlargement  by  nothing  but  canvas  and  tarpaulin, 
and  my  grandfather  and  his  acquaintance  stood 
with  their  backs  to  this,  to  survey  the  work  of  the 
builders. 

Waiting  by  my  grandfather's  side  while  he 
talked,  I  was  soon  aware  that  business  was  brisk 
in  the  bar  beyond  the  canvas;  and  I  listened  idly 
[361] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
to  the  hum  of  custom  and  debate.    Suddenly  I  grew 
aware  of  a  voice  I  knew — an  acrid  voice  just  within 
the  canvas. 

"  Then  if  you're  useless,  I  ain't,"  said  the  voice, 
"  an'  I  sha'n't  let  it  drop."  And  indeed  it  was 
Mrs.  Grimes  who  spoke. 

I  looked  up  quickly  at  Grandfather  Nat,  but  he 
was  interested  in  his  discussion,  and  plainly  had 
not  heard.  Mrs.  Grimes's  declarations  drew  a 
growling  answer  in  a  man's  voice,  wholly  indis- 
tinct; and  I  found  a  patch  in  the  canvas,  with  a 
loose  corner,  which  afforded  a  peep-hole. 

Mrs.  Grimes  was  nearest,  with  her  back  to  the 
canvas,  so  that  her  skirts  threatened  to  close  my 
view.  Opposite  her  were  two  persons,  in  the  near- 
est of  whom  I  was  surprised  to  recognise  the  coarse- 
faced  woman  I  had  seen  twice  before:  once  when 
she  came  asking  confused  questions  of  Grandfather 
Nat  about  the  man  who  sold  a  watch,  and  once  when 
she  fainted  at  the  inquest,  and  INIrs.  Grimes  was  too 
respectable  to  stay  near  her.  The  woman  looked 
sorrowful  and  drawn  about  the  eyes  and  cheeks, 
and  she  held  to  the  arm  of  a  tall,  raw-boned  man. 
His  face  was  seamed  with  ragged  and  blistered 
f  362  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

skin,  and  he  wore  a  shade  over  the  hollows  where 
now,  peeping  upward,  I  could  see  no  eyes,  but  shut 
and  sunken  lids ;  so  that  at  first  it  was  hard  to  recog- 
nise the  fellow  who  had  been  talking  to  this  same 
coarse-faced  woman  by  Blue  Gate,  when  she  left 
him  to  ask  those  questions  of  my  grandfather ;  and 
indeed  I  should  never  have  remembered  him  but  that 
the  woman  brought  him  to  my  mind. 

It  was  this  man  whose  growling  answer  I  had 
heard.  Now  Mrs.  Grimes  spoke  again.  "  All  my 
fault  from  the  beginning?  "  she  said.  "  O  yes,  I 
like  that :  because  I  wanted  to  keep  myself  respect- 
able !  My  fault  or  not,  I  sha'n't  wait  any  longer 
for  you.  If  I  ain't  to  have  it,  you  sha'n't.  An'  if 
I  can't  get  the  money  I  can  get  something  else." 

The  man  growled  again  and  swore,  and  beat  his 
stick  impotently  on  the  floor.  "  You're  a  fool,"  he 
said.  "  Can't  you  wait  till  I'm  a  bit  straight.'* 
You  an'  your  revenge !  Pah !  When  there's 
money  to  be  had  !  " 

"  Not  much  to  be  had  your  way,  it  seems,  the 
mess  you've  made  of  it;  an'  precious  likely  to  do 
any  better  now,   ain't  you.''     An'  as  to  money — 

well  there's  rewards  given " 

(  363] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

Grandfather  Nat's  hand  fell  on  my  cap,  and 
startled  me.  He  had  congratulated  his  friend,  ap- 
proved his  plans,  made  a  few  suggestions,  and  now 
was  ready  to  resume  the  walk.  He  talked  still  as 
he  took  my  hand,  and  stood  thus  for  a  few  minutes 
by  the  door,  exchanging  views  with  the  publican 
on  the  weather,  the  last  ships  in,  and  the  state  of 
trade.  I  heard  one  more  growl,  louder  and  angrier 
than  the  others,  from  beyond  the  screen,  and  a 
sharper  answer,  and  then  there  was  a  movement 
and  the  slam  of  a  door ;  and  I  got  over  the  step, 
and  stretched  my  grandfather's  arm  and  my  own 
to  see  Mrs.  Grimes  go  walking  up  the  street. 

When  we  were  free  of  the  publican,  I  told  Grand- 
father Nat  that  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Grimes  in  the  bar. 
He  made  so  indifferent  a  reply  that  I  said  nothing 
of  the  conversation  I  had  overheard;  for  indeed  I 
knew  nothing  of  its  significance.  And  so  we  went 
about  our  business. 


[364  ] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  Ctoentp^stjr 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


On  our  way  home  we  were  brought  to  a  stand 
at  the  swing  bridge,  which  lay  open  to  let  through 
a  ship.  We  were  too  late  for  the  perilous  lock ;  for 
already  the  capstans  were  going,  and  the  ship's 
fenders  were  squeaking  and  groaning  against  the 
masonry.  So  we  stood  and  waited  till  fore,  main, 
and  mizzen  had  crawled  by;  and  then  I  was  sur- 
prised to  observe,  foremost  and  most  impatient 
among  the  passengers  on  the  opposite  side,  Mr. 
Cripps. 

The  winches  turned,  and  the  bridge  swung;  and 
my  surprise  grew,  when  I  perceived  that  Mr.  Cripps 
made  no  effort  to  avoid  Grandfather  Nat,  but  hur- 
ried forward  to  meet  him. 

"  Well,"  said  my  grandfather  gruffly,  "  house  on 
fire.?" 

"  No,  sir — no,  but  I  thought " 

"  Sign  done?  " 

"  No,  Cap'en,  not  done  exactly.  But  I  just  got 
curious  noos,  an'  so  I  come  to  meet  you." 

"What's  the  news.?" 

[367] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

"  Not  p'rhaps  exactly  as  you  might  say  noos,  sir, 
but  information — information  that's  been  tran- 
spired to  me  this  mornin'.  More  or  less  unique  in- 
formation, so  to  say, — uncommon  unique;  much 
uniquer  than  usual." 

With  these  repetitions  Mr.  Cripps  looked  hard  in 
my  grandfather's  eyes,  as  one  does  who  wishes  to 
break  news,  or  lead  up  to  a  painful  subject. 
"  What's  it  all  about.?  "  asked  Grandfather  Nat. 

"  The  Juno." 

"Well?" 

"  She  was  scuttled  wilful,  Cap'en  Kemp,  scuttled 
wilful  by  Beecher.  It's  more'n  rumour  or  scan- 
dal :  it's  plain  evidence." 

]My  grandfather  looked  fixedly  at  Mr.  Cripps. 
"  What's  the  plain  evidence  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  chap  that's  been  so  much  in  the  bar 
lately,"  Mr.  Cripps  answered,  his  eyes  wide  with 
the  importance  of  his  discovery.  "  The  chap  that 
soaks  so  heavy,  an'  shouts  at  anyone  you  order  out. 
He  was  aboard  the  Juno  on  the  voyage  out,  an'  he 
deserted  at  Monte  Video  to  a  homeward  bound 
ship." 

"  Then  he  doesn't  know  about  the  wreck."  I 
[368  ] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
thought  my  grandfather  made  this  objection  almost 
eagerly. 

"  No,  Cap'en ;  but  he  deserted  'cos  he  said  he 
preferred  bein'  on  a  ship  as  was  meant  to  come 
back,  an'  one  as  had  some  grub  aboard — him  an' 
others.  Beecher  tried  to  pile  'em  up  time  an' 
again;  an'  says  the  chap — Conolly's  his  name — 
says  he,  anything  as  went  wrong  aboard  the  Juno 
was  Beecher's  doin' ;  which  was  prophesied  in  the 
foc'sle  a  score  o'  times  'fore  she  got  to  Monte 
Video.  An' — an'  Conolly  said  more."  Mr.  Cripps 
stole  another  sidelong  glance  at  Grandfather 
Nat. 

"  Confidential  to  me  this  mornin',  Conolly  said 
more." 

"What?" 

"  He  said  it  was  the  first  officer,  your  son, 
Cap'en,  as  prevented  the  ship  bein'  piled  up  on 
the  voyage  out,  an'  all  but  knocked  Beecher  down 
once.  An'  he  said  they  was  near  fightin'  half  the 
time  he  was  with  'em,  an'  he  said — surprisin'  sol- 
emn too — solemn  as  a  man  could  as  was  half  drunk 
— that  after  what  he'd  seen  an'  heard,  anything 
as  happened  to  the  first  mate  was  no  accident,  or 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
anything  like  it.      That's  what  he   said,   Cap'en, 
confidential  to  me  this  mornin'." 

We  were  walking  along  together  now;  and  Mr. 
Cripps  seemed  puzzled  that  his  information  pro- 
duced no  more  startling  effect  on  mj  grandfather. 
The  old  man's  face  was  pale  and  hard,  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  surprise ;  which  was  natural,  seeing 
that  this  was  no  news,  as  Mr.  Cripps  supposed, 
but  merely  confirmation. 

"  He  said  there  was  never  any  skipper  so  par- 
tic'ler  about  the  boats  an'  davits  bein'  kep'  in 
order  as  Beecher  was  that  trip,"  Mr.  Cripps  pro- 
ceeded. "  An'  he  kep'  his  own  life-belt  wonderful 
handy.  As  for  the  crew,  they  kep'  their  kit-bags 
packed  all  the  time;  they  could  see  enough  for 
that.  An'  he  said  there  was  some  as  could  sAy 
more'n  he  could." 

We  came  in  view  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  and 
Mr.  Cripps  stopped  short.  "  He  don't  know  I'm 
tellin'  you  this,"  he  said.  "  He  came  in  the  skip- 
pers' room  with  a  drink,  an'  got  talkin'  confiden- 
tial. He's  very  close  about  it.  You  know  what 
sailors  are." 

Grandfather    Nat    frowned,    and    nodded.      In- 
[  370  J 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
deed,  nobody  knew  better  the  common  sailor-man's 
horror  of  comphcations  and  "  land-shark  "  troubles 
ashore:  of  anything  that  might  lead  to  his  being 
asked  for  responsible  evidence,  even  for  his  own 
protection.  It  gave  impunity  to  three-quarters  of 
the  iniquity  practised  on  the  high  seas. 

"  An'  then  o'  course  he's  a  deserter,"  Mr.  Cripps 
proceeded.  "  So  I  don't  think  you'd  better  say  I 
told  you,  Cap'en — not  to  him.  You  can  give  in- 
formation— or  I  can — an'  then  they'll  make  liiin 
talk,  at  the  Old  Bailey ;  an'  they'll  bring  others." 

Grandfather  Nat  winced,  and  turned  away. 
Then  he  stopped  again  and  said  angrily :  "  Damn 
you,  don't  meddle!  Keep  your  mouth  shut,  an' 
don't  meddle." 

Mr.  Cripps's  jaw  dropped,  and  his  very  nose 
paled.  "  But — but—"  he  stammered,  "  but,  Cap'- 
en, it's  murder!  Murder  agin  Beecher  an'  Vincy 
too !  You'll  do  something,  when  it's  your  own  son  ! 
Your  own  son.     An'  it's  murder,  Cap'en !  " 

My  grandfather  went  two  steps  on  his  way, 
with  a  stifled  groan.  "  Murder !  "  he  muttered, 
"  murder  it  is,  by  the  law  of  England !  " 

Mr.  Cripps  came  at  his  heels,  very  blank  in  the 
[  371  1 


THE      HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
face.      Suddenly   my   grandfather  turned   on   him 
again,  pale  and  fierce.     "  Shut  your  mouth,  d'ye 
hear.f*     Stow  your  slack  jaw,  an'  mind  your  own 
business,  or  I'll " 

Grandfather  Nat  lifted  his  hand;  and  I  believe 
nothing  but  a  paralysis  of  terror  kept  Mr.  Cripps 
from  a  bolt.  Several  people  stopped  to  stare,  and 
the  old  man  saw  it.  So  he  checked  his  wrath  and 
walked  on. 

"  I'll  see  that  man,"  he  said  presently,  flinging 
the  words  at  Mr.  Cripps  over  his  shoulder.  And 
so  we  reached  the  Hole  in  the  Wall. 

Mr.  Cripps  sat  speechless  in  the  bar  and  trem- 
bled, while  Grandfather  Nat  remained  for  an  hour 
in  the  skippers'  parlour  with  Conolly  the  half- 
drunken.  What  they  said  one  to  another  I  never 
learned,  nor  even  if  my  grandfather  persuaded  the 
man  to  tell  him  anything;  though  there  can  be  no 
doubt  he  did. 

For  myself,  I  moved  uneasily  about  the  bar-par- 
lour, and  presently  I  slipped  out  into  the  alley  to 
gaze  at  the  river  from  the  stair-head.  I  was 
troubled  vaguely,  as  a  child  often  is  who  strives 
to  analyse  the  behaviour  of  his  elders,  I  stared 
[  372  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
some  while  at  the  barges  and  the  tugs,  and  at  Bill 
Stagg's  boat  with  its  cage  of  fire,  as  it  went  in 
and  about  among  the  shipping;  I  looked  at  the 
bills  on  the  wall,  where  new  tales  of  men  and  women 
Found  Drowned  displaced  those  of  a  week  ago; 
and  I  fell  again  into  the  wonderment  and  con- 
jecture they  always  prompted;  and  last  I  turned 
up  the  alley,  though  whether  to  look  out  on  the 
street  or  to  stop  at  the  bar-parlour  door,  I  had 
not  determined. 

As  I  went,  I  grew  aware  of  a  tall,  florid  man 
with  thick  boots  and  very  large  whiskers,  who  stood 
at  the  entry,  and  regarded  me  with  a  wide  and 
ingratiating  smile.  I  had  some  cloudy  remem- 
brance of  having  seen  him  before,  walking  in  the 
street  of  Wapping  Wall ;  and,  as  he  seemed  to  be 
coming  to  meet  me,  I  went  on  past  the  bar-parlour 
door  to  meet  him. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said  with  a  slight  glance  toward  the 
door,  "  you're  a  smart  fellow,  I  can  see."  And  he 
patted  my  head  and  stooped.  "  Now  I've  got 
something  to  show  you.     See  there !  " 

He  pulled  a  watch  from  his  pocket  and  opened 
it.     I  was  much  interested  to  see  that  the  inward 
[  373  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
part  swung  clear  out  from  the  case,  on  a  hinge, 
exactly  as  I  had  seen  happen  with  another  watch 
on  my  first  evening  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall. 
"  That's  a  rum  trick,  ain't  it? "  observed  the 
stranger,  smiling  wider  than  ever. 

I  assented,  and  thanked  him  for  the  demonstra- 
tion. 

"  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  you're  as  clever  a  lad  as 
ever  I  see;  but  I  lay  you  never  see  a  watch  like 
that  before.'*  " 

"  Yes  I  did,"  I  answered  heartily.  "  I  saw  one 
once." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  florid  man,  still  toying  with 
the  watch,  "  I  don't  believe  that — it's  your  gam- 
mon.    Why,  where  did  you  see  one?  " 

He  shot  another  stealthy  glance  toward  the  bar- 
parlour  door  as  he  said  it,  and  the  glance  was  so 
unlike  the  smile  that  my  sleeping  caution  was 
alarmed.  I  remembered  how  my  grandfather  had 
come  by  the  watch  with  the  M.  on  the  back ;  and 
I  remembered  his  repeated  warnings  that  I  must 
not  talk. 

" Why  where  did  you  see  one?  "  asked  the 

stranger. 

"  In  a  man's  hand,"  I  said,  with  stolid  truth. 
[  374] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

He  looked  at  me  so  sharply  through  his  grin 
that  I  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  I  had 
somehow  let  out  the  secret  after  all.  But  I  re- 
solved to  hold  on  tight. 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  he  laughed,  "  in  a  man's  hand,  of 
course !  I  knew  you  was  a  smart  one.  Mine 
hasn't  got  any  letter  on  the  back,  you  see." 

"  No,"  I  answered  with  elaborate  indifference ; 
"  no  letter."  And  as  I  spoke  I  found  more  matter 
of  surprise.  For  if  I  had  eyes  in  my  head — and 
indeed  I  had  sharp  ones — there  was  Mrs.  Grimes 
in  a  dark  entry  across  the  street,  watching  this 
grinning  questioner  and  me. 

"  Some  have  letters  on  the  back,"  said  the  ques- 
tioner.    "  Mine  ain't  that  sort.     What  sort " 

Here  Joe  the  potman  dropped,  or  knocked  over, 
something  in  the  bar-parlour;  and  the  stranger 
started. 

"  I  think  I'm  wanted  indoors,"  I  said,  moving 
off,  glad  of  the  interruption.     "  Good-bye !  " 

The  florid  stranger  rose  and  walked  off  at  once, 
with  a  parting  smile.  He  turned  at  the  corner, 
and  went  straight  away,  without  so  much  as  a  look 
toward  the  entry  where  Mrs.  Grimes  was.  I 
fancied  he  walked  rather  like  a  policeman. 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 


IN    THE   BAR-PARLOUR 

Continued 


J_^AN  OGLE,  blinded  and  broken,  but  silent  and 
saving  his  revenge:  Musky  Mag,  stricken  and 
pitiable,  but  faithful  even  to  death:  Henry  Viney, 
desperate  but  fearful,  and  urgently  needy :  these 
three  skulked  at  bay  in  dark  holes  by  Blue  Gate. 
Sullen  and  silent  to  doggedness.  Ogle  would 
give  no  word  to  the  hospital  doctors  of  how  his 
injury  had  befallen;  and  in  three  days  he  would 
brook  confinement  no  longer,  but  rose  and  broke 
away,  defiant  of  persuasion,  to  grope  into  the 
outer  world  by  aid  of  Mag's  arm.  Blind  George 
was  about  still,  but  had  scarcely  been  near  the 
Highway  except  at  night,  when,  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  boast,  he  was  as  good  as  most  men  with 
sound  eyes.  It  was  thought  that  he  spent  his  days 
over  the  water,  as  would  be  the  way  of  one  feel- 
ing the  need  of  temporary  caution.  It  did  not 
matter :  that  could  rest  a  bit.  Blind  George  should 
be  paid,  and  paid  bitter  measure;  but  first  the  job 
in  hand,  first  the  scheme  he  had  interrupted ;  first 
the  money. 

[  379  J 


THE      HOLE     IN      THE      WALL 

Here  were  doubt  and  difficulty.  Dan  Ogle's 
plan  of  murder  and  comprehensive  pillage  was 
gone  by  the  board ;  he  was  next  to  helpless.  It 
was  plain  that,  whatever  plan  was  followed,  Viney 
must  bear  the  active  part;  and  Dan  Ogle  raved 
and  cursed  to  find  his  partner  so  unpractised  a 
ruffian,  so  cautious  and  doubtful  a  confederate. 

Mrs.  Grimes  made  the  matter  harder,  and  it  was 
plain  that  the  thing  must  be  either  brought  to  a 
head  or  wholly  abandoned,  if  only  on  her  account. 
For  she  had  her  own  idea,  with  her  certain  revenge 
on  Captain  Nat,  and  a  contingent  reward ;  fur- 
thermore, she  saw  her  brother  useless.  And  things 
were  brought  to  a  head  when  she  would  wait  no 
more,  but  carried  her  intrigue  to  the  police. 

Nothing  but  a  sudden  move  would  do  now,  des- 
perate as  it  might  be;  and  the  fact  screwed  Viney 
to  the  sticking-place,  and  gave  new  vigour  to 
Ogle's  shaken  frame.  After  all,  the  delay  had  not 
been  great — no  more  than  a  few  days.  Captain 
Nat  suspected  nothing,  and  the  chances  lay  that 
the  notes  were  still  in  hand,  as  they  had  been  when 
Ogle's  sister  last  saw  them ;  for  he  could  afford 
to  hold  them,  and  dispose  of  them  at  a  later  and 
[  380  ] 


IN      THE      BAR-PARLOUR 

safer  time.  The  one  danger  was  from  this  ma- 
noeuvre of  Mrs.  Grimes:  if  the  police  thought  well 
enough  of  her  tale  to  act  without  preliminary  in- 
quiry, they  might  be  at  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  with 
a  search-warrant  at  any  moment.  The  thing  must 
be  done  at  once — that  very  night. 

Musky  Mag  had  never  left  Dan's  side  a  mo- 
ment since  she  had  brought  him  from  the  hospital ; 
now  she  was  thrust  aside,  and  bidden  to  keep  to 
herself.  Viney  took  to  pen,  ink  and  paper ;  and 
the  two  men  waited  impatiently  for  midnight. 

It  was  then  that  Viney,  with  Ogle  at  his  elbow, 
awaited  the  closing  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  hid- 
den in  the  dark  entry,  whence  Mrs.  Grimes  had 
watched  the  plain-clothes  policeman  fishing  for 
information  a  few  hours  earlier.  The  customers 
grew  noisier  as  the  hour  neared ;  and  Captain  Nat's 
voice  was  heard  enjoining  order  once  or  twice,  ere 
at  last  it  was  raised  to  clear  the  bar.  Then  the 
company  came  out,  straggling  and  staggering, 
wrangling  and  singing,  and  melted  away  into  the 
dark,  this  way  and  that.  Mr.  Cripps  went  east, 
the  pale  pensioner  west,  each  like  a  man  who  has 
all  night  to  get  home  in ;  and  the  potman,  having 
[381  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 
fastened  the  shutters,  took  his  coat  and  hat,  and 
went  his  way  also. 

There  was  but  one  other  tavern  in  sight,  and 
that  closed  at  the  same  time  as  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall;  and  since  none  nearer  than  Paddy's  Goose 
remained  open  till  one,  Wapping  Wall  was  soon 
dark  and  empty.  There  were  diamond-shaped 
holes  near  the  top  of  the  shutters  at  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall,  and  light  was  visible  through  these:  a 
sign  that  Captain  Nat  was  still  engaged  in  the 
bar.  Presently  the  light  dulled,  and  then  disap- 
peared: he  had  extinguished  the  lamps.  Now  was 
the  time — while  he  was  in  the  bar-parlour.  Viney 
came  out  from  the  entry,  pulling  Ogle  by  the  arm, 
and  crossed  the  street.  He  brought  him  to  the 
court  entrance,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  end 
post. 

"  This  is  the  first  post  in  the  court,"  Viney 
whispered.  "  Wait  here  while  I  go.  We  both 
know  what's  to  do." 

Viney    tiptoed    to    the    bar-parlour    door,    and 

tapped.     There  was  a  heavy  footstep  within,  and 

the  door  was  flung  open.      There   stood   Captain 

Nat   with   the   table-lamp   in   his   hand.     "  Who's 

[  382  ] 


IN     THE     BAR-PAR  I.  OUR 
that? "     said     Captain    Nat.      "  Come    into    the 
Hght." 

Viney  took  a  deep  breath.  "  Me,"  he  answered. 
"  I'll  come  in ;  I've  got  something  to  say." 

He  went  in  side-foremost,  with  his  back  against 
the  door-post,  and  Captain  Nat  turned  slowly, 
each  man  watching  the  other.  Then  the  landlord 
put  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  shut  the  door. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  hear  you  say  it." 

There  was  something  odd  about  Captain  Nat's 
eyes:  something  new,  and  something  that  Viney 
did  not  like.  Hard  and  quiet;  not  anger,  it  would 
seem,  but  something  indefinable — and  worse.  Viney 
braced  himself  with  another  inspiration  of  breath. 

"  First,"  he  said,  "  I'm  alone  here,  but  I've  left 
word.  There's  a  friend  o'  mine  not  far  off,  wait- 
ing. He's  waiting  where  he  can  hear  the  clock 
strike  on  Shadwell  Church  just  as  you  can  hear 
it  here;  an'  if  I'm  not  back  with  him  safe  an' 
sound,  when  it  strikes  one,  he's  going  to  the  police 
with  some  papers  I've  given  him  in  an  envelope." 

"  Ah.     An'  what  papers?  " 

"  Papers   I've   written   myself.      Papers   with  a 
sort  of  private  log  in  them — not  much  like  the 
[  383  ] 


THE     HOLE      IN      THE     WALL 

one  they  showed  'em  at  Lloyd's — of  the  loss  of  the 
Florence  years  enough  ago,  when  a  man  named 
Dan  Webb  was  killed.  Papers  with  the  names  of 
most  of  the  men  aboard,  an'  hints  as  to  where  to 
find  some  of  'em:  Bill  Stagg,  for  instance,  A.  B. 
They  may  not  want  to  talk,  but  they  can  be 
made." 

Captain  Nat's  fixed  look  was  oddly  impassive. 
"  Have  you  got  it  on  the  papers,"  he  said,  in  a 
curiously  even  voice,  as  though  he  recited  a  lesson 
learned  by  rote ;  "  have  you  got  it  on  the  papers 
that  Dan  Webb  had  got  at  the  rum,  an'  was  lost 
through  bein'  drunk .''  " 

"  No,  I  haven't ;  an'  much  good  it  'ud  do  ye  if 
I  had.  Drunk  or  sober  he  died  in  that  wreck,  an' 
not  a  man  aboard  but  knew  all  about  that.  I've 
told  you,  before,  what  it  is  by  law :  Murder.  Mur- 
der an'  the  Rope." 

"  Ay,"  said  Captain  Nat  in  the  same  even  voice, 
though  the  tones  grew  in  significance  as  he  went 
on.  "  Ay,  you  have ;  an'  you  made  me  pay  for 
the  information.  Murder  it  is,  an'  the  Rope,  by 
the  law  of  England." 

"  Well,  I  want  none  of  your  money  now ;  I  want 
[  384  ] 


IN     THE     BAR-PARLOUR 

my  own.  I'll  go  back  an'  burn  those  papers, — 
or  give  'em  to  you,  if  you  like — an'  you'll  never 
see  me  again,  if  you'll  do  one  thing — not  with 
your  money." 

"  What.?  " 

"  Give  me  my  partner's  leather  pocket-book  and 
my  eight  hundred  and  ten  pounds  that  was  in  it. 
That's  first  an'  last  of  my  business  here  to-night, 
an'  all  I've  got  to  say." 

For  a  moment  Captain  Nat's  impassibility  was 
disturbed,  and  he  looked  sharply  at  Viney. 
"Ha!"  he  said,  "what's  this.''  Partner's  pocket- 
book.?    Notes.?    What?" 

"  I've  said  it  plain,  an'  you  understand  me. 
Time's  passing,  Cap'en  Kemp,  an'  you'd  better 
not  waste  it  arguing;  one  o'clock'll  strike  before 
long.  The  money  I  came  an'  spoke  about  when 
they  found  Marr  in  the  river;  you  had  it  all  the 
time,  an'  you  knew  it.  That's  what  I  want:  noth- 
ing o'  yours,  but  my  own  money.  Give  me  my 
own  money,  an'  save  your  neck." 

Captain  Nat  compressed  his  lips,  and  folded  his 
arms.  "  There  was  a  woman  knew  about  this," 
he  said  slowly,  after  a  pause,  "  a  woman  an'  a 
[  385  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

man.  They  each  took  a  try  at  that  money,  in 
different  ways.     They  must  be  friends  o'  yours." 

"Time's  going,  Cap'en  Kemp, 'time's  going! 
Listen  to  reason,  an'  give  me  what's  my  own.  I 
want  nothing  o'  yours ;  nothing  but  my  own.  To 
save  you ;  and — and  that  boy.  You've  got  a  boy 
to  remember :  think  o'  the  boy !  " 

Captain  Nat  stood  for  a  little,  silent  and 
thoughtful,  his  eyes  directed  absently  on  Viney, 
as  though  he  saw  him  not ;  and  as  he  stood  so  the 
darkness  cleared  from  his  face.  Not  that  moment's 
darkness  only,  but  all  the  hardness  of  years  seemed 
to  abate  in  the  old  skipper's  features,  so  that  pres- 
ently Captain  Nat  stood  transfigured. 

"  Ay,"  he  said  at  last,  "  the  boy— I'll  think  o' 
the  boy,  God  bless  him !  You  shall  have  your 
money,  Viney:  though  whether  it  ought  to  be 
yours  I  don't  know.  Viney,  when  you  came  in  I 
was  ready  to  break  you  in  pieces  with  my  bare 
hands — which  I  could  do  easy,  as  you  know  well 
enough."  He  stretched  forth  the  great  knotted 
hands,  and  Viney  shrank  before  them.  "  I  was 
ready  to  kill  you  with  my  hands,  an'  would  ha' 
done  it,  for  a  reason  I'll  tell  you  of,  afterwards. 
[  386  ] 


IN      THE      BAR-PARLOUR 
But  I've  done  evil   enough,  an'  I'll  do  no  more. 
You  shall  have  jour  money.     Wait  here,  an'  I'll 
fetch  it."  * 

"  Now  no — no  tricks,  you  know !  "  said  Viney, 
a  little  nervously,  as  the  old  man  turned  toward 
the  staircase  door. 

"  Tricks  ?  "  came  the  answer.  "  No.  An  end 
of  all  tricks."  And  Captain  Nat  tramped  heavily 
up  the  stair. 


[  387 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cfjapter  Ctoentp^eisljt 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


iTiY  grandfather  was  uncommonly  silent  all  that 
day,  after  his  interview  with  Conolly.  He  bade 
me  good  night  when  I  went  to  bed,  and  kissed 
me;  but  he  said  no  more,  though  he  sat  by  my 
bed  till  I  fell  asleep,  while  Joe  attended  the  bar. 

I  had  a  way,  now  and  again,  of  waking  when 
the  bar  was  closed — perhaps  because  of  the  noise; 
and  commonly  at  these  times  I  lay  awake  till 
Grandfather  Nat  came  to  bed,  to  bid  him  good 
night  once  more.  It  was  so  this  night,  the  night 
of  nights.  I  woke  at  the  shouting  and  the  stum- 
bling into  the  street,  and  lay  while  the  bar  was 
cleared,  and  the  doors  banged  and  fastened. 

My  grandfather  seemed  to  stay  uncommonly 
long;  and  presently,  as  the  night  grew  stiller,  I 
was  aware  of  voices  joined  in  conversation  below. 
I  wondered  greatly  who  could  be  talking  with 
Grandfather  Nat  at  this  hour,  and  I  got  out  of 
bed  to  listen  at  the  stair-head.  It  could  not  be 
Bill  Stagg,  for  the  voices  were  in  the  bar-parlour, 
and  not  in  the  store-place  behind;  and  it  was  not 
f  391  ] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
Joe  the  potman,  for  I  had  heard  him  go,  and  I 
knew  his   step  well.      I  wondered  if  Grandfather 
Nat  would  mind  if  I  went  down  to  see. 

I  was  doubtful,  and  I  temporised;  I  began  to 
put  on  some  clothes,  listening  from  time  to  time 
at  the  stair-head,  in  hope  that  I  might  recognise 
the  other  voice.  But  indeed  both  voices  were  in- 
distinct, and  I  could  not  distinguish  one  from  the 
other.  And  then  of  a  sudden  the  stair-foot  door 
opened,  and  my  grandfather  came  upstairs,  heavy 
and  slow. 

I  doubted  what  he  might  say  when  he  saw  my 
clothes  on,  but  he  seemed  not  to  notice  it.  He 
brought  a  candle  in  from  the  landing,  and  he 
looked  strangely  grave — grave  with  a  curious  com- 
posure. He  went  to  the  little  wall-cupboard  at 
his  bed-head,  and  took  out  the  cash-box,  which  had 
not  been  downstairs  since  the  pale  man  had  ceased 
work.  "  Stevy  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  have  you  said 
your  prayers.''  " 

"  Yes,  grandfather." 
"An'  didn't  forget  Gran' father  Nat.?" 
"  No,  grandfather,  I  never  forget  you." 
"  Good    boy,    Stevy."      He    took    the    leather 
[  392] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
pocket-book  from  the  box,  and  knelt  by  my  side, 
with  his  arm  about  me.  "  Stevy,"  he  said,  "  here's 
this  money.  It  ain't  ours,  Stevy,  neither  yours 
nor  mine,  an'  we've  no  right  to  it.  I  kept  it  for 
you,  but  I  did  wrong;  an'  worse,  I  was  leadin'  you 
wrong.     Will  you  give  it  up,  Stevy .''  " 

"  Why,  yes,  grandfather."  Truly  that  was  an 
easy  enough  thing  to  say ;  and  in  fact  I  Avas  in 
some  way  pleased  to  know  that  my  mother  had 
been  right,  after  all. 

"'  Right,  Stevy ;  be  an  honest  boy  always,  and 
an  honest  man— better  than  me.  Since  I  was  a  boy 
like  you,  I've  gone  a  long  way  wrong,  an'  I've 
been  a  bad  man,  Stevy,  a  bad  man  some  ways,  at 
least.  An'  now,  Stevy,  I'm  goin'  away — for  a  bit. 
Presently,  when  I'm  gone,  you  can  go  to  the  stairs 
an'  call  Bill  Stagg — he'll  come  at  once.  Call  Bill 
Stagg^ — he'll  stay  with  you  to-night.  You  don't 
mind  Bill  Stagg,  do  you.''" 

Bill  Stagg  was  an  excellent  friend  of  mine,  and 
I  liked  his  company ;  but  I  could  not  understand 
Grandfather  Nat's  going  away.  Where  was  he 
going,  and  why,  so  late  at  night.'' 

"  Never  mind  that  just  now,  Stevy.     I'm  going 
[393] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
away — for  a  bit ;  an'  whatever  happens  3'ou'll  al- 
ways  say   prayers   night  an'   mornin'    for  Gran'- 
father  Nat,  won't  you?     An'  be  a  good  boy." 

There  was  something  piteous  now  in  my  grand- 
father's hard,  grave  face.  "  Don't  go,  grand- 
father," I  pleaded,  with  my  arm  at  his  neck, 
"  don't  go !  Grandfather  Nat !  You're  not — not 
going  to  die,  are  you.-^  " 

"  That's  as  God  wills,  my  boy.  We  must  all 
die  some  day." 

I  think  he  was  near  breaking  down  here;  but 
at  the  moment  a  voice  called  up  the  stairs. 

"Are  you  coming.'*"  said  the  voice.  "Time's 
nearly  up !  "  And  it  frightened  me  more  than  I 
can  say  to  know  this  second  voice  at  last  for 
Viney's. 

But  my  grandfather  was  firm  again  at  once. 
"  Yes,"  he  cried,  "  I'm  coming !  .  .  .  No  more 
to  do,  Stevy — snivelling's  no  good."  And  then 
Grandfather  Nat  put  his  hands  clumsily  together, 
and  shut  his  eyes  like  a  little  child.  "  God  bless 
an'  save  this  boy,  whatever  happens.  Amen,"  said 
Grandfather  Nat. 

Then    he    rose,    and    took    from    the    cash-box 
[394] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
the  watch  that  the  broken-nosed  man  had  sold. 
"  There's  that,  too,"  he  said  musingly.  "  I  dunno 
why  I  kep'  it  so  long."  And  with  that  he  shut  the 
cash-box,  and  strode  across  to  the  landing.  He 
looked  back  at  me  for  a  moment,  but  said  noth- 
ing; and  then  descended  the  stairs. 

Bewildered  and  miserably  frightened,  I  followed 
him.  I  could  neither  reason  nor  cry  out,  and  I 
had  an  agonised  hope  that  I  was  not  really  awake, 
and  that  this  was  just  such  a  nightmare  as  had 
afflicted  me  on  the  night  of  the  murder  at  our 
door.  I  crouched  in  the  lower  stairs,  and  lis- 
tened. 

"  Yes.  I've  got  it,"  said  my  grandfather,  an- 
swering an  eager  question.  "  There  it  is.  Look 
at  that — count  the  notes." 

I  heard  a  hasty  scrabbling  of  paper. 

"  Right  ?  "  asked  my  grandfather. 

"  Quite  right,"  Viney  answered ;  and  there  was 
exultation  in  his  voice. 

"  Pack  'em  up — put  'em  safe  in  your  pocket. 
Quite  safe.P  There's  the  watch,  too;  I  paid  for 
that." 

"O,  the  watch.?     Well,  all  right,  I  don't  mind 
[395] 


THE      HOLE      IN     THE     WALL 
having  that  too,   since   you're  pressing. 
You  might  ha'  saved  a  deal  of  trouble,  yours  an' 
mine  too,  if  you'd  done  all  this  before." 

"  Yes,  you're  right ;  but  I  clear  up  all  now. 
You've  got  the  notes  all  quite  safe,  have  you.''  " 

"  All  safe."  There  was  the  sound  of  a  slap  on 
a  breast-pocket. 

"And  the  watch.?" 

*'  Ay ;  and  the  watch." 

"Good!"      .      .      . 

I  heard  a  bounce  and  a  gasp  of  terror ;  and  then 
my  grandfather's  voice  again.  "  Come !  Come, 
Viney !  We'll  be  quits  to  the  end.  We're  bad 
men  both,  an'  we'll  go  to  the  police  together. 
Bring  your  papers,  Viney !  Tell  'em  about  the 
Florence  an'  Dan  Webb,  an'  I'll  tell  'em  about  the 
Juno  an'  my  boy !  I've  got  my  witnesses — an'  I'll 
find  more — a  dozen  to  your  one !  Come,  Viney ! 
I'll  have  justice  done  now,  on  both  of  us!  " 

I  could  stay  no  longer.  Viney  was  struggling 
desperately,  reasoning,  entreating.  I  pushed  open 
the  staircase  door,  but  neither  seemed  to  note  me. 
My  grandfather  had  Viney  by  arm  and  collar,  and 
was  shaking  him,  face  downward. 
[  396  ] 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 

"  I'll  go  halves,  Kemp — I'll  go  halves,"  Viney 
gasped  hoarsely.  "  Divide  how  you  like  —  but 
don't,  don't  be  a  fool !  Take  five  hundred !  Think 
o'  the  boy  !  " 

"  I've  thought  of  the  boy,  an'  I've  thought  of 
his  father!  God'll  mind  the  boy  you've  made  an 
orphan !     Come !  " 

My  grandfather  flung  wide  the  door,  and  tum- 
bled Viney  up  the  steps  into  the  court.  The  little 
table  with  the  lamp  on  it  rocked  from  a  kick,  and 
I  saved  it  by  sheer  instinct,  for  I  was  sick  with 
terror. 

I  followed  into  the  court,  and  saw  my  grand- 
father now  nearly  at  the  street  corner,  hustling 
and  dragging  his  prisoner.  "  Dan !  Dan  !  "  Vi- 
ney was  crying,  struggling  wildly.  "  Dan  !  I've 
got  it !  Draw  him  off  me,  Dan !  Go  for  the 
kid  an'  draw  him  off!  Go  for  the  kid  on  the 
stairs !  " 

And  I  could  see  a  man  come  groping  between 
the  wall  and  the  posts,  a  hand  feeling  from  one 
post  to  the  next,  and  the  stick  in  the  other  hand 
scraping  the  wall.  I  ran  out  to  the  farther  side 
of  the  alley. 

[  397  ] 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 
Viney's  shout  distracted  my  grandfather's  at- 
tention, and  I  saw  him  looking  anxiously  back. 
With  that  Viney  took  his  chance,  and  flung  him- 
self desperately  round  the  end  post.  His  collar 
went  with  a  rip,  and  he  ran.  For  a  moment  my 
grandfather  stood  irresolute,  and  I  ran  toward 
him.  "  I  am  safe  here,"  I  cried.  "  Come  away, 
grandfather !  " 

But  when  he  saw  me  clear  of  the  groping  man, 
he  turned  and  dashed  after  Viney ;  while  from  the 
bar-parlour  I  heard  a  curse  and  a  crash  of  broken 
glass.  I  vaguely  wondered  if  Viney's  confederate 
were  smashing  windows  in  the  partition;  and  then 
I  ran  my  hardest  after  Grandfather  Nat. 

Viney  had  made  up  the  street  toward  the  bridge 
and  RatclifF  Highway,  and  Captain  Nat  pursued 
with  shouts  of  "  Stop  him !  "  Breathless  and  un- 
steady, I  made  slow  progress  with  my  smaller  legs 
over  the  rough  cobble-stones,  which  twisted  my 
feet  all  ways  as  I  ran.  But  I  was  conscious  of  a 
gathering  of  other  cries  ahead,  and  I  struggled  on, 
with  throbbing  head  and  bursting  heart.  Plainly 
there  were  more  shouts  as  I  neared  the  corner,  and 
a  running  of  more  men  than  two.  And  when  the 
[  398  1 


STEPHEN'S     TALE 
corner  was  turned,  and  the  bridge   and   the  lock 
were  before  me,  I  saw  that  the  chase  was  over. 

Three  bull's-eye  lanterns  were  flashing  to  and 
fro,  pointing  their  long  rays  down  on  the  black 
dock-water,  and  the  policemen  who  directed  them 
were  calling  to  dockmen  on  the  dark  quay,  who 
cried  back,  and  ran,  and  called  again. 

"  Man  in !  "  cried  one  and  another,  hurrying  In 
from  the  Highway.  "  Fell  off  th&  lock."  "  No, 
he  cut  his  lucky,  an'  headered  in !  "  "  He  didn't, 
I  tell  ye !  "     "  Yes,  he  did  !  "     "  Why  I  see  'im !  " 

I  could  not  see  my  grandfather;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment my  thumping  heart  stood  still  and  sick  with 
the  fear  that  it  was  he  who  was  drowning  in  the 
dock.  Then  a  policeman  swung  his  lantern  across 
to  the  opposite  side,  and  in  the  passing  flash 
Grandfather  Nat's  figure  stood  hard  and  clear  for 
an  instant  and  no  more.  He  was  standing  midway 
on  the  lock,  staring  and  panting,  and  leaning  on 
a  stanchion. 

With  a  dozen  risks  of  being  knocked  into  the 

dock  by  excited  onlookers,  I  scrambled  down  to  the 

lock  and  seized  the  first  stanchion.     It  creaked  and 

tottered  in  my  hand,  but  I  went  forward,  gripping 

[  399] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

at  the  swaying  chain  and  keeping  foothold  on  the 
sHppery,  uneven  timbers  I  knew  not  how.  Some- 
times the  sagging  chain  would  give  till  I  felt  my- 
self pitching  headlong,  only  to  be  saved  by  the 
check  of  the  stanchion  against  the  side  of  the 
socket;  and  once  the  chain  hung  so  low,  where  it 
had  slipped  through  the  next  stanchion-eye,  that 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  let  go,  and  plunge  in  the 
dark  for  the  next  upright — it  might  have  been  to 
plunge  into  space.  "  Grandfather  Nat !  Grand- 
father Nat !  "  went  up  my  little  voice  among  the 
cries  of  men.     "  I  am  coming.  Grandfather  Nat !  " 

I  reached  him  somehow  at  last,  and  caught  tight 
at  his  wrist.  He  was  leaning  on  the  stanchion 
still,  and  staring  at  the  dark  water.  "  Here  I  am, 
grandfather,"  I  said,  "  but  I  am  frightened. 
Stay  with  me,  please !  " 

For  a  little  while  he  still  peered  into  the  gloom. 
Then  he  turned  and  said  quietly :  "  I've  lost  him, 
Stevy.     He  went  over — here." 

By  the  sweep  of  his  hand  I  saw  what  had  hap- 
pened, though  I  could  scarce  realise  the  whole 
matter  then  and  there.  As  I  presently  learned, 
however,  Viney  was  running  full  for  the  bridge, 
[400  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
with  Captain  Nat  shouting  behind  him,  when  he 
saw  the  lanterns  of  the  three  poHcemen  barring 
the  bridge  as  they  came  on  their  beat  from  the 
Highway.  To  avoid  them  he  swung  aside  and 
made  for  the  lock,  with  his  pursuer  hard  at  his 
heels.  Now  a  lock  of  that  sort  joins  in  an  angle 
or  mitre  at  the  middle,  where  the  two  sides  meet 
like  a  valve,  pointing  to  resist  the  tide ;  so  that  the 
hazardous  path  along  the  top  turns  off  sharply 
mid-way.  Flying  headlong,  with  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  the  avenger  behind  him,  Viney  overran  the 
angle,  meeting  the  low  chain  full  under  his  knees; 
and  so  was  gone,  with  a  yell  and  a  splash. 

Grandfather  Nat  took  me  by  the  collar,  and 
turned  me  round.  "  We'll  get  back,  Stevy,"  he 
said.     "  Go  on,  I'll  hold  you  tight." 

And  so  in  the  pitchy  dark  I  went  back  along 
the  way  I  had  come,  walking  before  my  grand- 
father as  I  had  done  when  first  I  saw  that  lock. 
The  dockmen  had  flung  random  life-buoys,  and 
now  were  groping  with  drags  and  hooks.  Some 
judged  that  the  man  must  have  gone  under  like  a 
stone ;  others  thought  it  quite  likely  that  a  good 
swimmer  might  have  got  away  quietly.  And 
[  401  ] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
everybody  wished  to  know  wlio  the  man  was,  and 
why  he  was  running. 

To  all  such  questions  my  grandfather  made  the 
same  answer.  "  It  was  a  man  I  wanted,  wanted 
bad,  for  the  police.  You  find  him,  dead  or  alive, 
an'  I'll  identify  him,  an'  say  the  rest  in  the  proper 
place;  that's  all."  Only  once  he  amplified  this 
answer,  and  then  he  said:  "  You  can  judge  he  was 
as  much  afraid  o'  the  police  as  he  was  o'  me,  or 
more.  Look  where  he  went,  when  he  saw  'em  on 
the  bridge !  "  And  again  he  repeated :  "  I'll  say 
the  rest  when  he's  found,  not  before;  an'  nobody 
can  make  me." 

He  was  calm  and  cool  enough  now,  as  I  could 
feel  as  well  as  hear,  for  my  hand  was  buried  in 
his,  while  he  pushed  his  way  stolidly  through  the 
little  crowd.  As  for  mj^self,  I  could  neither  think, 
nor  speak,  nor  laugh,  nor  cry,  though  dizzily  con- 
scious of  an  impulse  to  do  all  four  at  once.  I  had 
Grandfather  Nat  again,  and  now  he  would  not  go 
away :  that  I  could  realise ;  and  I  clung  with  all 
my  might  to  as  much  of  his  hand  as  I  could  grip. 


402 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Ci)apter  Ctoentpntne 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


JjUT  I  was  to  have  neither  time  to  gather  my 
wits  nor  quiet  to  assort  my  emotions :  for  the  full 
issue  of  that  night  was  not  yet.  Even  as  we  were 
pushing  through  the  little  crowd,  and  even  as  my 
grandfather  parried  question  with  answer,  a  new 
cry  arose,  and  at  the  sound  the  crowd  began  to 
melt :  for  it  was  the  cry  of  "  Fire." 

A  single  shout  at  first,  and  then  another,  and 
then  a  clamour  of  three  together,  and  a  beat  of 
running  feet.  Men  about  us  started  off,  and  as 
we  rounded  the  corner,  one  came  running  back  on 
his  tracks.  "  Cap'en  Kemp,  it's  your  house !  "  he 
cried.  "  Your  house,  Cap'en  Kemp !  The  Hole 
in  the  Wall !     The  Hole  in  the  Wall !  " 

Then  was  dire  confusion.  I  was  caught  in  a 
whirl  of  running  men,  and  I  galloped  and  stumbled 
along  as  I  might,  dragging  dependent  from  my 
grandfather's  hand.  Somewhere  ahead  a  waver- 
ing light  danced  before  my  eyes,  and  there  was  a 
sudden  outburst  of  loud  cracks,  as  of  a  hundred 
carters'  whips ;  and  then — screams ;  screams  with- 
out a  doubt.  Confusedly  my  mind  wont  back  to 
[  40")  ] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 

Viney's  confederate,  groping  in  at  the  bar-par- 
lour door.  What  had  he  done?  Smashed  glass? 
Glass  ?  It  must  have  been  the  lamp :  the  lamp  on 
the  little  table  hy  the  door,  the  lamp  I  had  m3^self 
saved  but  ten  seconds  earlier ! 

Now  we  were  opposite  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  and 
the  loud  cracks  were  joined  with  a  roar  of  flame. 
Out  it  came  gushing  at  the  crevices  of  doors  and 
shutters,  and  the  corners  of  doors  and  shutters 
shrivelled  and  curled  to  let  out  more,  as  though 
that  bulging  old  wooden  house  were  a  bursting 
reservoir  of  long-pent  fire  that  could  be  held  in 
no  more.  And  still  there  were  the  screams,  hoarser 
and  hoarser,  from  what  part  within  was  not  to  be 
guessed. 

My  grandfather  stood  me  in  a  doorway,  up  two 
steps,  and  ran  toward  the  court,  but  that  was  im- 
passable. With  such  fearful  swiftness  had  the 
fire  sprung  up  and  over  the  dry  old  timber  on  this 
side,  where  it  had  made  its  beginning,  that  already 
a  painted  board  on  the  brick  wall  opposite  was 
black  and  smoking  and  glowering  red  at  the  edges ; 
and  where  I  stood,  across  the  road,  the  air  was  hot 
and  painful  to  the  eyes.  Grandfather  Nat  ran 
[  406  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
along  the  front  of  the  house  to  the  main  door,  but 
it  was  blazing  and  bursting,  and  he  turned  and 
ran  into  the  road,  with  his  arm  across  his  eyes. 
Then,  with  a  suddenly  increased  roar,  flames  burst 
tenfold  in  volume  and  number  from  all  the  gi-ound 
floor,  and,  where  a  shutter  fell,  all  within  glowed 
a  sheer  red  furnace.  The  spirit  was  caught  at 
last. 

And  now  I  saw  a  sight  that  would  come  again 
in  sleep  months  afterward,  and  set  me  screaming 
In  my  bed.  The  cries,  which  had  lately  died  down, 
sprang  out  anew  amid  the  roar,  nearer  and  clearer, 
with  a  keener  agony;  and  up  in  the  club-room, 
the  room  of  the  inqiiests — there  at  a  window  ap- 
peared the  Groping  Man,  a  dreadful  figure.  In 
no  darkness  now,  but  ringed  about  with  bright 
flame  I  saw  him:  the  man  whose  empty,  sightless 
eye-pits  I  had  seen  scarce  twelve  hours  before 
through  a  hole  in  a  canvas  screen.  The  shade 
w^as  gone  from  over  the  place  of  the  eyes,  and 
down  the  seared  face  and  among  the  rags  of  blis- 
tered skin  rolled  streams  of  horrible  great  tears, 
forced  from  the  raw  lids  by  scorching  smoke.  His 
clothes  smoked  about  him  as  he  stood — groping, 
[  407  ] 


THE     HOLE     IN     THE     WALL 
groping  still,  he  knew  not  whither;  and  his  mouth 
opened  and  closed  with  sounds  scarce  human. 

Grandfather  Nat  roared  distractedly  for  a  lad- 
der, called  to  the  man  to  jump,  ran  forward  twice 
to  the  face  of  the  house  as  though  to  catch  him, 
and  twice  came  staggering  back  with  his  hands 
over  his  face,  and  flying  embers  singeing  his  hair 
and  his  coat. 

The  blind  man's  blackened  hands  came  down  on 
the  blazing  sill,  and  leapt  from  the  touch.  Then 
came  a  great  crash,  with  a  single  second's  dulling 
of  the  whole  blaze.  For  an  instant  the  screaming, 
sightless,  weeping  face  remained,  and  then  was 
gone  forever.     The  floor  had  fallen. 

The  flames  went  up  with  a  redoubled  roar,  and 
now  I  could  hold  my  place  no  longer  for  the  heat. 
People  were  flinging  water  over  the  shutters  and 
doors  of  the  houses  facing  the  fire,  and  from  the 
houses  adjoining  furniture  was  being  dragged  in 
hot  haste.  My  grandfather  came  and  carried  me 
a  few  doors  farther  along  the  street,  and  left  me 
with  a  chandler's  wife,  who  was  out  in  a  shawl 
and  a  man's  overcoat  over  a  huddle  of  flannel 
petticoats. 

[  408  ] 


STEPHEN'S  TALE 
Now  the  fire  engines  came,  dasliing  tlirougli  the 
narrow  lanes  with  a  clamour  of  hoarse  cries,  and 
scattering  the  crowd  this  way  and  that.  The  Hole 
in  the  Wall  was  past  aid,  and  all  the  work  was 
given  to  save  its  neighbours.  For  some  while  I 
could  distinguish  my  grandfather  among  the  fire- 
men, heaving  and  hauling,  and  doing  the  work  of 
three.  The  police  were  grown  in  numbers  now, 
and  they  had  cleared  the  street  to  beyond  where 
I  stood,  so  that  I  could  see  well  enough;  and  in 
every  break  in  the  flames,  in  every  changing  shad- 
ow, I  saw  again  the  face  of  the  Groping  Man, 
even  as  I  can  see  it  now  as  I  write. 

Floor  went  upon  floor,  till  at  last  the  poor  old 
shell  fell  in  a  heap  amid  a  roar  of  shouts  and  a 
last  leap  of  fire,  leaving  the  brick  wall  of  the  next 
house  cracking  and  black  and  smoking,  and  tagged 
with  specks  of  dying  flame.  And  then  at  last  my 
grandfather,  black  and  scorched,  came  and  sat  by 
me  on  a  step,  and  put  the  breast  of  his  coat  about 
me. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall : 
the  end   of  its   landlord's   doubts   and  embarrass- 
ments and  dangers,  and  the  beginning  of  another 
chapter  in  his  history — his  history  and  mine. 
[409] 


THE    HOLE    IN    THE 
WALL 

Cf)apter  Cfjtrtp 


STEPHEN'S   TALE 

Continued 


l^ITTLE  remains  to  say;  for  with  the  smoking 
sticks  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall  the  tale  of  my  early 
days  bums  itself  out. 

Viney's  body  was  either  never  found  or  never 
identified.  Whether  it  was  discovered  by  some 
person  who  flung  it  adrift  after  possessing  him- 
self of  the  notes  and  the  watch :  whether  it  was 
held  unto  dissolution  b}''  mud,  or  chains,  or  water- 
side gear :  or  whether  indeed,  as  was  scarce  pos- 
sible, it  escaped  with  the  life  in  it,  to  walk  the 
world  in  some  place  that  knew  it  not,  I,  at  any 
rate,  cannot  tell.  The  fate  of  his  confederate,  at 
least,  was  no  matter  of  doubt.  He  must  have  been 
driven  to  the  bar  by  the  fire  he  had  raised,  and 
there,  bewildered  and  helpless,  and  cut  off  from 
the  way  he  had  come,  even  if  he  could  find  it,  he 
must  have  scrambled  desperately  till  he  found  the 
one  open  exit — the  club-room  stairs. 

But  of  these  enough.  Faint  by  contrast  with 
the  vivid  scenes  of  the  night,  divers  disconnected 
impressions  of  the  next  morning  remain  with  me: 
[  413  ] 


THE      HOLE      IN      THE      WALL 

all  the  fainter  for  the  sleep  that  clutched  at  my 
eyelids,  spite  of  my  anxious  resolution  to  see  all 
to  the  very  end.  Of  a  coarse,  draggled  woman  of 
streaming  face  and  exceeding  bitter  cry,  who  sat 
inconsolable  while  men  raked  the  ruins  for  a  thing 
unrecognisable  when  it  was  found.  Of  the  pale 
man,  who  came  staring  and  choking,  and  paler 
than  ever,  gasping  piteously  of  his  long  and  hon- 
est service,  and  sitting  down  on  the  curb  at  last, 
to  meditate  on  my  grandfather's  promise  that  he 
should  not  want,  if  he  would  work.  And  of  Mr. 
Cripps,  at  first  blank  and  speechless,  and  then 
mighty  loquacious  in  the  matter  of  insurance. 
For  works  of  art  would  be  included,  of  course,  up 
to  twenty  pounds  apiece ;  at  which  amount  of  pro^ 
ceeds  —  with  a  discount  to  Captain  Kemp  —  he 
would  cheerfully  undertake  to  replace  the  lot,  and 
throw  the  signboard  in. 

Mrs.  Grimes  was  heard  of,  though  not  seen ; 
but  this  was  later.  She  was  long  understood  to 
have  some  bitter  grievance  against  the  police, 
whom  she  charged  with  plots  and  conspiracies  to 
defeat  the  ends  of  justice;  and  I  think  she  ended 
with  a  savage  assault  on  a  plain-clothes  constable's 
[  414  ] 


STEPHEN      S     TALE 
very    large    whiskers,    and    twenty-one    days'    im- 
prisonment. 

The  Hole  in  the  Wall  was  rebuilt  in  brick,  with 
another  name,  as  I  think  you  may  see  it  still ;  or 
could,  till  lately.  There  was  also  another  land- 
lord. For  Captain  Nat  Kemp  turned  to  enlarg- 
ing and  improving  his  wharf,  and  he  bought 
lighters,  and  Wapping  saw  him  no  more.  As  for 
me,  I  went  to  school  at  last. 


THE   END 


[  415 


Bp  Boot!)  Carfetngton 

THE  TWO   VANREVELS 

r 

Booth  TARKINGTON^S  new  novel,  The 
Two  Vanrevels,  is  a  love  story  of  Indiana, 
laid  in  the  time  of  the  Mexican  War.  No  set- 
ting for  a  book  of  Mr.  Tarkington's  could  be 
more  auspicious.  It  is  a  story  of  Indiana  by 
the  author  of  The  Gentleman  from  Indiana,  and 
a  romance  of  our  forefathers'  times  by  the  au- 
thor of  Monsieur  Beaucaire.  It  is  as  stirring 
and  wholesome  as  the  former,  and  as  deft  in 
execution,  as  witty,  as  true  to  the  aspect  and 
spirit  of  the  life  it  re-creates  as  the  latter.  The 
author  is  more  fertile  in  invention  than  ever 
before,  and  the  charm  of  his  style  is  enhanced 
by  the  picture  of  the  happy  life  of  those  old 
days — the  days  that  lay  between  the  passing 
of  the  Indian  and  the  coming  of  the  railroads. 
Seven  dainty  illustrations  by  Henry  Hutt 
help  to  make  an  unusually  handsome  book. 

$1.50 


asp  ^.  a^.  Crotfeett 


Author  of  "The  Stickit  Minister,"  "The  Black  Douglas, 
"The  Firebrand,"  etc. 


THE   BANNER   OF   BLUE 


JlN  The  Banner  of  Blue  Mr.  Crockett  offers  a 
new  version  of  that  most  wonderful  of  parables, 
the  prodigal  son.  Against  the  sombre  back- 
gromid  of  the  Disruption  Period  in  Scotland  he 
draws  with  a  master  hand  two  brilliantly  colored 
love-stories,  the  one  intense  to  its  tragic  end, 
the  other  delightful  in  its  quaint  Scotch  humor. 
The  character-drawing  possesses  in  particular 
the  quality  of  nearness  and  reality,  and  he  who 
reads  must  suffer  with  the  proud  Loid  of  Gower 
in  the  downfall  of  his  idolized  son,  laugh  with 
Veronica  Caesar  in  her  philosophical  bearing  of 
domestic  burdens  and  tyranny,  and  share  with 
John  Glendonwyn  his  love  for  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  sweetheart,  Faerlie  Glendenning.  That 
part  of  the  story  dealing  with  the  separation 
of  church  and  state  calls  forth  not  only  the 
strongest  but  the  most  picturesque  traits  of  the 
Scottish  people. 

$1.50 


3Sp  W.  a.  jTraser 


Author  of  "  The  Eye  of  a  God,"  "  The  Outcasts,"  etc. 

THOROUGHBKEDS 

r 

XN  this  novel  Mr.  I'raser  returns  to  his  old 
and  famous  field  of  the  turf  and  the  racing 
horse.  It  is  full  of  rich  and  stimng  pictures. 
The  great  heart  of  the  horse  beats  through 
every  line  describing  the  track.  And  on  this 
o-lowing:,  movino;  background  of  strife  and 
victory  and  defeat  there  plays  a  love  story, 
chai'mingly  simple  and  innocent  and  pure, 
seemingly  the  more  pure  and  sweet  for  the 
roaring,  fighting  life  amid  which  it  goes  on.  A 
turn  of  fortune  makes  it  necessary  that  the 
heroine  race  her  father's  string.  The  exciting 
incidents  that  arise  from  this  and  the  trials 
and  complications  through  which  the  love  of 
the  heroine  passes  unweakened,  go  to  make  up 
a  story  of  unusual  strength  and  interest. 

$1.50 


3Bp  fori  Cijantilet  l^arrts 

GABRIEL  TOLLIVER 

r 

X  HIS  is  by  far  the  most  mature  and  impoi-tant 
work  that  Mr.  Harris  has  yet  giv^en  us.  Like 
David  Copperfield,  Gabriel  Tolliver  is  in- 
tensely personal,  and  is  practically  the  story 
of  Mr.  Harris"'  own  boyhood  experiences.  In 
so  far  as  its  setting  is  concerned  it  is  a  novel  of 
Reconstruction  in  the  South.  It  is  the  most 
perfect  picture  in  fiction  of  those  disheartening 
days  following  the  war,  when  the  Southern 
States  seemed  likely  to  sink  into  anarchy  through 
the  corruption  of  the  carpet-baggers.  In  the 
midst  of  such  conditions,  and  the  quaint,  un- 
progressive  life  of  the  little  Georgia  community, 
Shady  Dale,  a  beautiful  study  of  boy  and  girl 
love  is  developed  and  carried  to  a  happy  con- 
clusion after  exciting  adventures  on  the  part  of 
the  hero,  who  is  falselv  accused  of  the  murder 
of  a  Government  agent  engaged  in  inciting  the 
negro  population  to  violence  against  the  whites. 

$1.50 


THE  RAGGED  EDGE 

r 

The  ragged  edge  is  a  stirring  story 
of  ward  politics  and  of  the  ward\s  social  life ; 
bosses  and  heelers  and  pugilists  are  the  shining 
lights  of  the  balls  as  of  the  primaries ;  withal 
the  life  of  the  ward  centres  in  much-loved  homes 
and  is  moulded  by  universal  human  passions. 
Such  material  is  to  be  found  in  every  newspaper, 
but  Mr.  Mclntyre  takes  us  into  the  heart  of  his 
world  as  no  one  has  done  before.  He  is  no 
dilettante  studying  his  people  from  the  outside; 
he  writes  as  one  of  them,  and  with  a  gusto  as 
remarkable  as  his  knowledge.  His  story  moves 
with  great  rapidity,  but  the  reader  finds  himself 
knowing  the  people  like  neighbors  and  taking 
sides  with  partisan  ardor.  Jews,  Germans,  Irish 
and  young  American  offspring — we  look  into 
the  great  smelting-pot  of  the  nations ;  and  the 
author  interests  us  above  all  in  the  success  of  a 
love  affair  or  the  downfall  of  a  leader. 
$1.25 


9Sj?  (George  li.  Curner 

THE   TASKMASTERS 

r 

The  taskmasters,  by  George  K.  Turner, 
pictures  a  New  England  that  has  never  ap- 
peared in  Hterature  before,  and  which  is  after 
all  the  typical  and  dominating  New  England 
of  modern  times.  In  the  great  manufacturer, 
ruling  like  a  feudal  baron  his  town-full  of  em- 
ployees and  dictating  the  policies  of  our  na- 
tional government,  Mr.  Turner  finds  a  figure 
significant,  picturesque  and  singularly  unknown 
to  art.  He  sets  before  us  the  whole  workings 
of  this  world  made  up  of  ruler  and  retainer, 
and  he  knows  one  side  as  well  as  the  other;  he 
knows  the  intimate  passions  of  the  heart ;  and 
the  innermost  tricks  of  political  coercion  as 

well, 

$1.25 


35p  #eorse  ;^atitien  jEarttn 

EMMY  LOU,  HER  BOOK  AND 
HEART 

Emmy  lou,  her  book  and  heart, 

by  George  Madden  Martin,  is  the  simple  rela- 
tion of  Emmy  Lou\s  school  days,  from  the 
First  Reader  up  through  the  High  School.  In 
these  stories  Mrs.  Martin  has  created  the  most 
winsomely  lovely  little  girl  in  contemporary 
fiction.  Moreover,  she  has  drawn  the  first 
faithful  and  sympathetic  picture  of  American 
public-school  life.  Mrs.  Martin's  wonderful 
insight  into  the  growth  of  the  child's  mind 
gives  these  stories  all  the  dramatic  coherence 
and  development  of  a  great  novel. 

In  his  illustrations  Charles  L.  Hinton  has 
shown  the  same  ability  and  sympathy  with 
children  that  Mrs.  Martin  displays  in  the  nar- 
rative. 


33p  Br.  Cljarles  Castman 

INDIAN  BOYHOOD 

Illustrated  by  Ernest  L.  Blumenschein 

r 

JL  HIS  is  the  only  record  in  existence  of  In- 
dian life  as  it  is  seen,  not  from  the  outside  by 
such  poetic  narrators  as  Longfellow,  Cooper 
and  Chateaubriand,  but  by  one  whose  own 
boyhood  was  passed  amid  the  scenes  described. 
Dr.  Eastman  is  a  full-blooded  Sioux  Indian, 
the  whole  of  whose  younger  days  was  passed 
on  the  plains  of  the  Northwest  in  the  tribal 
life  of  his  family.  Later  he  left  savagery  for 
civilization,  but  he  never  lost  his  love  for  the 
old  ways  of  life.  His  affection  for  the  past  in- 
fuses his  reminiscences  with  the  fine  spirit  of 
poetry,  so  that  his  book  stands  almost  as  the 
epic,  a  saga,  of  his  race. 

E.  L.  Blumenschein,  the  illustrator  of  Indian 
Boyhood,  was  sent  to  Dakota  in  the  summer 
of  1901  to  study  and  sketch  from  life  Indian 
scenes  and  customs,  and  his  commentary  on 
Dr.  Eastman's  description  is  an  interesting  and 
valuable  first-page  accompaniment  to  the  text, 
$1.60 


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